


Switch

by illwick



Series: Unwind [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bisexual John Watson, Breathplay, Cybersex, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, First Time, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Forced Orgasm, Kink Negotiation, Kitchen Sex, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Toys, Sexting, Shower Sex, Table Sex, Topping from the Bottom, Under-negotiated Kink, Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: John is trying hard to become the man he aspires to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A brief disclaimer: This first chapter involves a weird encounter with a sex doll. Please note that it's meant to be a bit strange and off-putting; this is not a kink that I'm planning on working into this series. Just didn't want to turn anyone off (as it were) thinking that this was going to be a reoccurring thing. And if the idea REALLY weirds you out, just skip to Chapter 2! Trust me, the plot will not be lost on you.
> 
> This chapter also deals with an under-negotiated session during which John is under the influence of alcohol; again, this is a one-off thing, and is described in the context of acknowledging that anyone can get carried away in the heat of the moment and make a mistake, including our two lovestruck heroes. The results are not glamorized and the fallout is not minimized. Again, if you want to avoid the angst: skip to Chapter 2!

"What. In God's name. Is that."

It's 9:00 on a dreary Thursday night, and Sherlock's just picked up John's FaceTime call. Sherlock had texted to tell John he'd taken on a new case, and John was desperate for details. He and Rosie had been at John's parents' house for the past four days in preparation for their 45th anniversary party that upcoming weekend, and John is gasping for any type of human interaction that doesn't pertain to floral arrangements or vol-au-vents. He's more than a little jealous that Sherlock has taken a case without him.

But as soon as Sherlock picks up the call and the sitting room of 221B blinks into focus, John is greeted with the image of an unnaturally realistic mannequin sprawled across the floor. 

At least, he hopes it's a mannequin. 

"Hmmm?" The screen switches to reveal Sherlock's face peering down into the camera. His cheekbones look stunning in the bluish glow of the screen, John thinks wistfully. Christ, he misses him.

But...

"In the middle of the sitting room floor, Sherlock. What the hell was that?"

"Oh, it's for the case."

"Yes, I should hope so. Is it a new mannequin? I thought we agreed two was plenty." Sherlock had two mannequins he would routinely use for crime scene re-creation and various experiments. John had gotten used to them, but he did insist they be kept in 221C when not in use (and they'd nearly scared Mrs. Hudson to death when they forgot to tell her about the new storage plan). 

But this one is different-- it's female, for one thing, that much John was able to deduce just from the quick glance he'd gotten, and it seemed better quality and far more realistic than the others.

Sherlock switches the screen over again to show John the mannequin. He approaches it and flips it over from where it had been lying face-down.

John recoils. "Jesus Christ, is that a _sex doll?"_

"Yes. To be more precise, it's a £400 deluxe Japanese erotic companionship aide."

"And what is it doing in our flat?"

"It was found at the scene of the crime."

John pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you sanitised it before you brought it inside."

"Unnecessary. The doll was completely unused, the freshly-opened packaging still on the scene. Forensics didn't pull any DNA or fingerprints from any part of it. All of my deductions lead me to conclude it had been opened mere minutes before the murder was committed."

"Well, that's... a relief, I suppose."

"For the doll, maybe. For the victim, I imagine it was cold comfort." The screen flips back around to show Sherlock's face as he collapses onto the sofa with an exasperated sigh. 

John snorts out a laugh. "You're a right berk, you know that?"

"Yes, John, you tell me every day." Sherlock smiles down at him fondly, and John's heart seems to flutter in his chest. 

It's complete madness, that he can still feel this way about this man after so many years. He wonders if he and Sherlock will throw an anniversary party someday. 

Sentiment.

He keeps the conversation professional, though. He knows Sherlock is in Work mode, and he doesn't want to disturb him for too long. They suss out the details of the case, and John offers his opinion on a few key elements. Then he reminds Sherlock to eat, begs him not to smoke, and bids him goodnight before Sherlock's attention span can wane.

John falls asleep content.

Sherlock ends up missing the party. The case is still in progress when the weekend rolls around, and Sherlock seems certain he's on the verge of a breakthrough when he texts John on Saturday morning to send his regrets.

In all honesty, John's a bit relieved. He knows social events like this one stress Sherlock out to no end, especially when they involve people who are important to John. Sherlock becomes so caught up in not saying or doing the wrong thing that his anxiety is practically contagious, and the last thing John needs this weekend is to have to worry about Sherlock, on top of Rosie, the party, maintaining the fragile peace between Harry and their parents, and fielding invasive questions from friends and relatives that he's not seen in years. Overall, he knows it's much better for both of them that Sherlock sits this one out.

Blessedly, the party goes smoothly (significantly aided by the generous distribution of alcohol). By the time 10pm rolls around, John's six stiff gin and tonics deep, which is barely enough prevent him from completely losing his temper as he attempts to explain to his aunt Mildred why it was absolutely not necessary that he take a new wife immediately for the sake of his child. ("But it's too much masculine energy, dear! If she grows up in that atmosphere, who knows, she may end up like that sister of yours. A proper upbringing _requires_ a woman's touch.")

Just then, his mobile buzzes in his pocket. 

INCOMING TEXT FROM: Greg Lestrade  
<17 June 22:18> Have you heard from Sherlock?

John's heart clenches in his chest.

JH  
<22:18> no is he missng

GL  
<22:18> No  
<22:18> Nothing like that  
<22:19> Sorry, didn't mean to scare you  
<22:19> He solved the case and left the station about an hour ago

JH  
<22:20> and?

GL  
<22:21> Things were kind of messy at the end  
<22:21> He IDed the perp but went after him himself like the lunatic he is and nearly got himself killed

JH  
<22:22> god dammit i'm gong to kill him msyelf

GL  
<22:22> It's not that simple  
<22:22> He IDed the perp, but we didn't believe him

JH  
<22:23> wait you what?

GL  
<22:24> I'm so sorry  
<22:24> There's no easy way to say it  
<22:24> The perp had an alibi that seemed iron-clad  
<22:24> All the evidence pointed to someone else entirely

JH  
<22:25> but sherlock told you who it was and you didnt believe him

GL  
<22:26> I'm really sorry  
<22:26> I know this must have brought up some bad memories and I know you're out of town and I just thought you should know in case he needed someone to talk to  
<22:27> I tried to apologise to him myself but he just cursed me out

JH  
<22:29> fuck off greg

John is shaking with anger. How _could_ they? How fucking _could_ they? After everything, how could Greg doubt Sherlock like that? The audacity of it all has him seething.

"John, dear, are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry Aunt Mildred. I need to go check on Sherlock."

"Sherlock? That funny flatmate of yours?"

"He's not my flatmate, he's my partner."

"Partner?"

"Yes, Aunt Mildred. We fuck. Goodnight."

With that, John turns on his heel and marches upstairs to his room.

With trembling hands, he call Sherlock's phone. No answer. He takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm down.

JH  
<22:31> Pick up your phone.

He dials again. No answer.

JH  
<22:32> I mean it. Pick up your phone right now.

Still no answer.

He's desperate. He has one last trick up his sleeve.

JH  
<22:33> Sweetheart, I need you to pick up your phone or else I'm going to to be very angry with you.

INCOMING CALL FROM: Sherlock Holmes

"Hi there, sweetheart."

"John."

"Are you back at the flat?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Greg told me what happened. Are you alright?"

"Physically, yes, I'm fine, but I'm not... I'm not..." He sounds like he's unraveling. It's breaking John's heart.

"Shhh, it's okay. Do you need to _unwind_ a little bit, love?"

"Yes, please, John."

"Okay. Just relax. I've got you." John scrambles to calm is racing mind and get the situation back under control. He wills himself to take a deep breath before carrying on. "We haven't done this over the phone before, so I'll need you to communicate with me about what's working. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Have you had anything to eat today?"

"I...I don't think so."

"Alright. Go into the kitchen and get one of your protein bars out of the cupboard. I want you to eat the entire thing, chewing each bite ten times. Then I want you to drink a glass of water. Will you be good and do that for me?"

"Yes, John."

"Alright, I'll wait. I'll be right here."

He hears the muffled sounds of Sherlock going through the prescribed motions. John's brain is working frantically; they've never _unwound_ remotely before, so he has no idea what direction to take this. All he knows is that Sherlock needs him, and he will not disappoint.

Finally, he hears Sherlock sigh.

"Done."

"Very good. Now, I have to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer me honestly. Were you injured at all tonight?"

"Minor abrasion on my elbow and splinter in my thumb. The abrasion was cleaned at the scene and I removed the splinter myself already."

"Good, good. Have you been smoking?"

"...Yes."

"That's not good, sweetheart."

"I know, John. I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice is so quiet John can barely hear him.

"It's okay, I know it happens sometimes, we don't have to worry about it tonight. Now, have you done any drugs?"

"What?"

"Sherlock, I have to ask. I know what happened with Greg tonight brought back some unpleasant memories of...the time before you fell. Greg implied you were upset when you left the station. I need to know if you've done any drugs tonight."

"Of course not." There's an edge of sass to his voice.

"Try that again."

"I'm sorry. I meant, 'No, John.'"

"I'm glad to hear that, sweetheart. I'm glad you decided to let me take care of you instead. Here's what I want you to do next: I'd like you to get your laptop and take it into the bedroom. I'd like you to prop it up in the chair by the wardrobe, and angle it so that the camera can see the whole bed. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, John." The sound of footsteps and more rummaging. Finally, "Done."

"Good. I'm going to call you back so you can take the video call on your computer. Does your laptop have a full battery?"

"Yes, John."

"Perfect. Stay right where you are, love, I'll be with you in a second." With that, John hangs up and quickly re-dials using FaceTime.

The bedroom of 221B blinks into view. "Sherlock? Can you come stand in front of the camera for me?"

Sherlock complies. He looks almost frighteningly pale and exhausted, and John wishes with everyone ounce of his being that he could reach through the screen and touch him. But this will have to do.

"Hi, sweetheart. You look gorgeous tonight."

Sherlock blushes and bites his lip.

"Can you go take the duvet off the bed and put it in the corner? Lovely, just like that. Now, I want you to take off your clothes. You can just leave them on the floor for now. Let me see how beautiful you are."

Without pause or hesitation, Sherlock sheds every stitch of clothing. John watches, his breathing accelerated as miles of porcelain skin are revealed for him to feast his eyes on. He can feel his cock beginning to stir.

Sherlock is in a similar state. Though he hasn't yet risen to full hardness, his cock has definitely taken interest in the proceedings, and John licks his lips as he plans his next move.

"Beautiful. Gorgeous. So brilliant, so perfect for me." Sherlock gives him a demure smile that's completely at odds with his current state of undress. "Alright, love. I want you to go make yourself comfortable in bed. Lean up against the headboard and spread your legs so I can see you. Then I want you to get some lube, and stroke your cock until you're nice and hard for me."

"Yes, John." The words rush from Sherlock's lips and he obeys without question. Within moments, John is treated to what he suspects just might be the most erotic vision in the world: Sherlock Holmes, effortlessly reclined, stroking himself with single-minded intensity.

"Christ, Sherlock, that's gorgeous. But it's a little hard for me to see. Will you get up on your knees? Yes, much better, just like that, oh yes, God, mmmm, Sherlock, I'm touching myself while I watch you, you're so beautiful, God, want you so badly." Sherlock hums faintly in approval. "Good. Thrust into your fist, fuck it, yeah, like that, let me watch you move, _oh,_ sweetheart, yes, you look so good..." Sherlock is moving quickly and with abandon, snapping his hips up to force his cock into the slick ring of his fingers. John watches transfixed, delighting in the way each little movement ripples through Sherlock's form, the sinew and muscle working in perfect tandem, pure power and prowess. John's mind spins and whirls, his fantasy taking a new shape.

"Good, sweetheart, stop now. Grab the pillow and put it in front of you, yes, just like that. I want to watch you fuck it." Sherlock pauses for a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion. John scrambles to clarify. "It's alright, love, just...rub yourself against it however it feels good." Slowly, Sherlock leans over and positions himself so that his cock aligns with the pillow. He keeps himself propped up on his arms as he lowers his pelvis until his cock comes into contact with the fabric. He hisses through his teeth at the friction.

 _"Yes,_ Sherlock. Good, just like that, move now, make yourself feel good." Sherlock lets out a grunt and begins to thrust. His hair falls across his face, the unruly curls blocking John's view of his eyes, which he's scrunched shut in pleasure.

His body moves in slow, undulating ripples as he ruts against the pillow. John doesn't know where to direct his eyes; the entire scene is so goddamn erotic that he feels like he may be suffocating with the heat of it. Watching Sherlock move like this is... well, it's unlike anything he's seen before. It's feral and wild and so fucking _sexy._ And just when John thinks it can't get any better, Sherlock begins to moan.

"Oh, God." John's hand moves faster on his own cock as Sherlock throws his head back in ecstasy. He's fucking into the pillow with abandon now, his mouth slack and eyes clouded as they search to meet John's through the computer screen.

"Mmmm, Sherlock, good, so good. Look... so good.... _God..."_

And then John's beastly little lizard-brain takes another hairpin turn. It conjures up a fantasy in a split second that had never even crossed John's mind before, but suddenly, it's the hottest thing John can possibly imagine.

"Sherlock, stop." Sherlock freezes instantly, his pelvis pressed flush against the pillow, back shining with sweat.

John takes a deep breath and removes his hand from his own cock, his impending orgasm slowly receding.

"Stand up." Sherlock gets to his feet, his legs shaking with exertion. He's panting, and his cock is flushed an angry red and leaking precome. He'd clearly not been far from coming. "Is the doll still in the living room?"

Sherlock cocks his head to the side and stares back and John as if trying to assess his motivations.

"I asked you a question, sweetheart."

"...Yes."

"Alright. Do you want to go get it?"

There's a long pause, and John can practically hear the gears in Sherlock's brain whirring. "Is that an order?"

"No, it's a question. Sherlock, remember our rules: if you don't want to do something, just say so. We can stop anytime, or do something else instead. Just be honest with me. If that doesn't sound good, tell me. I can think of a million other things I would love to do to you tonight if we don't do that particular one."

Sherlock bites his lip. John holds his breath. "It... sounds good."

John exhales. "Okay. So go ahead and get the doll. But remember, if at any time you don't like what's happening, you tell me and we stop. Understood?"

"Yes, John." With that, he pads off down the hallway. Moments later, he returns with the doll in tow.

"Alright. Put the doll on the bed with the head at the foot of the bed, closest to me. Spread the legs." Sherlock complies. John can't tell particularly well through the video stream whether his pupils are dilated, but his erection hasn't flagged in the slightest, and he's not telling John to stop. 

"Now, pull this chair closer to the bed. I'm too far away right now." Again, Sherlock complies willingly.

"Good. Get onto the bed and get a condom out of the drawer and put it on." They don't use condoms often, but John will sometimes employ one when they need to keep things quick and Sherlock doesn't have time for elaborate cleanup. Sherlock fishes one out of the drawer and rolls it on. For some reason, the sight of it is unimaginably erotic--John realises he's never seen Sherlock put on a condom before.

"Lovely. Here's what I want to happen next, sweetheart: I want you to slick yourself up and then fuck the doll until you come. I want you to make it good for yourself. I want you to do whatever your body tells you is right. I'm not going to give you any more instructions, but I want you to know that I'm watching you and touching myself and thinking about all the ways I want you as soon as I get home. Is that understood?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice is thick with arousal.

"Okay, love. Go ahead. Give me a little show."

Sherlock takes a deep breath as he coats himself with lube, his hands shaking slightly. Then he lines himself up and thrusts inside, issuing a bitten-off shout.

John's brain is in hyperdrive. From the angle he's seeing, it looks almost impossibly realistic, the doll's long, lean legs spread sumptuously to bracket Sherlock's hips, the hair an appealing cascade of brunette curls splayed across the bedsheet, the breasts pert and inviting. For all that Sherlock is to him, John is still attracted to women at a very basic level, and _this_ is doing things to him that he'd never even dreamed before.

Sherlock begins to thrust, and he looks up to lock his eyes with John's through the screen. They are lit with an animalistic intensity that pierces John to the core.

"Oh, sweetheart, _yes._ That's it now. How does it feel?"

"Mmmm. Tight. Oh, God... so tight..."

"Yeah, good. Good. Do you like it?"

 _"Yes,_ John, _yes, yes..."_ His answers come in short pants as he thrusts, the muscles in his arms rippling sensuously as he holds himself up and continues to take his pleasure.

"Oh, Sherlock. Look at you. You're incredible. Yeah, just like that, oh, sweetheart, that must feel so good." Sherlock hips are speeding up and he's hammering into the doll with sharp, deliberate strokes that make his perfect arse clench gloriously as he forces himself deeper inside.

"Yes, John, good, 's good, feels good..." His eyes are turning hazy and John can see he's fighting to make it last.

"Love, yes, keep going. You look so fucking good. God, you're amazing, just look at you."

"John--John--" Sherlock's eyes widen and he seems to be trying to convey something urgently, but he can't find the words. "Show me... please... wanna see... your cock, wanna see..."

"Yes." Without thinking John props up his phone against the footboard of his bed and sits back so that Sherlock can watch as he strokes himself. He's been agonizingly hard since they started, and he knows he won't last much longer. "Look what you do to me, sweetheart. You're so incredible. Look what you do."

"Oh, God, John, YES, going to... going to..."

"Do it. Come."

And with that, Sherlock grips the doll with renewed intensity, screws up his face, and pummels into it with all his considerable strength.

And then his eyes fly open and his lips part and he's staring into John's eyes with blazing intensity as he comes, thrusting over and over again, face contorted in bliss, crying out so loudly that were John not in the throes of passion, he'd worry he should have reduced the volume on his phone.

The image of Sherlock emptying himself flares bright in John's mind, imprinting itself in molten heat, and then John is coming, spilling over his fist, barely having the wherewithal to try and catch most of it with his free hand.

The following silence is stifling. 

Sherlock has collapsed onto the bed, the doll's prone form disturbingly limp beneath him. John is breathing like he's just run a marathon, and his head is spinning. He feels dizzy and slightly nauseous. Probably the six gin and tonics talking.

Shit.

John knows damn well from reading the Power Dynamics message boards that doing this while under the influence of any substance is a pisspoor idea. And now he's gone and had Sherlock fuck a _female sex doll_ for his voyeuristic pleasure without any pre-negotiation whatsoever. And Jesus, he's not even there in the room to try and make things right.

_What the FUCK were you thinking, Watson?_

_Fuck._

He swallows hard and wills himself to sober up a bit. He needs to try and fix this, but he's got no idea how.

On the screen, Sherlock stirs. He pushes himself up to his knees and moves to sit with his legs hanging off the side of the bed. He removes the condom without looking up. He looks unbelievably wrung-out.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

"Fine, John."

He still doesn't look up at the camera. 

"Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock's eyes remain pointedly fixed on the ground. 

John tries again. "Sweetheart, please."

That does the trick. Sherlock's eyes flick up to the screen and John's heart swells at the open vulnerability he sees in them.

"Talk to me. Are you really okay? Was that really something you wanted?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "For God's sake, John, relax. If I didn't want it, I would have told you. It was fine, it was good. I feel much better now."

John still feels shaken, like he's crossed some line and he doesn't know how to backtrack. But... Sherlock seems completely alright. Was this all just in John's head? Christ, he needs to remember to never, EVER do this while drunk again, he feels like the world's upside down.

"Okay. Okay, I'm glad. Do you want anything else tonight?"

Sherlock pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, thank you, John. I feel relaxed again. My head feels clear. I just need to shower and sleep."

"Of course, sweetheart." John knows Sherlock will fall into his standard 14-hour Post-Case Sleep Of the Dead now. He's not much for coddling or aftercare following their sessions, especially when he's just finished a case.

Sherlock stands and stretches, then pads over to the chair. "If it's alright, John, I'm going to go now."

"Yes, yes, of course. Of course, love. Sleep tight."

"'Night."

The screen goes black.

John doesn't fall asleep for a long, long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more to it than it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: This particular entry in the series deals with John's continued struggle as he grapples with his own sexuality. As it is written from John's perspective, there are mentions of his somewhat antiquated views on gender, sexual orientation, and the power dynamics therein. John is not presented as a homophobe, but this does touch on his insecurity pertaining to his own homosexual relationship. Additionally, the views I express from his perspective are not my own.

Sherlock is still asleep when John arrives back at the flat with Rosie the next day. By the time he finally emerges from the bedroom at around 4pm, sleep-mussed and pink, John's finished unpacking and Rosie is entertaining herself in her playpen.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

"Mmmrph." Sherlock rubs his eyes dazedly and leans against the doorframe to the kitchen, where John is assessing the dismal grocery situation in anticipation of dinner. 

"Sleep well?"

"Like the dead."

"Good." John makes his way over and plants a fond peck on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock sighs.

They should talk about last night.

But instead...

"I think I need to run to Tesco to pick up a few things for dinner. Are you good to watch Rosie?"

Sherlock nods and wanders into the sitting room, where he scoops up Rosie from her playpen and perches her on his hip. She squeals with delight and grabs a fistful of his curls--which are proving to be one of her favourite toys. Sherlock winces but then smiles at her indulgently. "I promised Mrs. H. I'd bring her by this afternoon, anyway. She was insufferable the entire time the two of you were away, doting and fretting and being a nuisance. That woman needs a distraction."

John laughs. "Yes, and thank God for it, or else I think by now we'd have both lost our minds."  
Sherlock grins.

John leaves for the store.

Two days pass. They don't talk about it. They need to. John knows it. 

But it's hard. It's difficult enough to negotiate and discuss their relationship as-is. But in the wake of something that's thrown John so off-kilter, he finds he's struggling more than ever to find the words for what he wants to say.

And it takes him two more days to finally, finally realise what it is that's truly bothering him. 

And another day after that to figure out how to express it.

But finally, he feels ready--or, as ready as he'll ever be. He steels his nerves as he makes his way up the stairs that evening, fresh off his shift at the surgery. Now is as good a time as ever, he resolves.

Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table, chewing the eraser of his pencil absentmindedly whilst poking something in a petri dish with his free hand-- John hopes for both of their sakes it's nothing dangerous or contagious. 

John plants a kiss in his mop of curls, then puts on the kettle and makes two strong cuppas without saying a word. Then he pulls out a chair at the table and plops himself down in it, placing Sherlock's mug in front of him with a bit more clatter than normal, willing Sherlock to look up.

No such luck.

He resigns himself to the inevitable.

"So. Our session on Saturday."

"Hmmm?" Sherlock's eyes remain fixed on the petri dish in front of him. He grabs a pair of tweezers and leans in closer, prodding whatever specimen is currently commanding his attention.

John steels his reserve. They really should talk about this. They _need_ to.

"It was... good for you?"

"No complaints." Sherlock holds the tweezers up to eye-level. There's something grotesque and stringy-looking dangling from the end of them. John doesn't even want to know. Sherlock turns and scribbles something into his notebook with his free hand.

"That's not really what I asked, Sherlock. Was it _good_ for you?"

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh and lowers the stringy-mutant-specimen-from-Hell back into the petri dish. He sets the tweezers aside with an air of deliberate intention, licks his lips, and _finally_ looks John square in the eye.

"If you're asking if I want to make a habit of using a sex doll or having sexual encounters with anything resembling a woman, the answer is no. I think we should chalk that up to being a one-off. I'm not angry, I'm not upset, what happened on Saturday was fine, but I'm not interested in repeating it, in any form."

"Okay, duly noted. But, I mean, that's not really all this is about..."

"So please, enlighten me, exactly what _is_ this about?"

"It's not... I mean, it's not _about_ anything, really, I just..."

"Bullshit, John, we don't usually have a post-mortem after we unwind. There's something you want to ask me. Ask it."

"Do you ever want to top?" The words fly out of John's mouth before he can even consider filtering them.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. "Top?"

"Top? You know... sexually?" 

"John, you know I'm not much for colloquialisms. Are you asking me if I want to _be on top_ while we have sex?"

"Well... yes."

Sherlock's brow furrows. "But... I'm on top all the time. Well, not _all_ the time, I'm on top 36.3% of the time, give or take, depending on our mood, the position, and which room we're in."

"No, I mean. Jesus. Okay. Back this up." John pinches the bridge of his nose lightly and takes a deep breath. He sometimes forgets how absolutely clueless Sherlock can be about sexual vocabulary. "In... in a situation like ours, 'topping' refers to... to the partner doing the penetrating. 'Bottoming' is the receiving partner. Does that make sense?"

"No, it absolutely does not make sense, like most sexual slang. It's an egregious oversimplification of the dynamics involved."

"Okay, Sherlock. Agreed on that point. But we're getting off-track here."

Sherlock bites his lip. "So you're asking me... you're asking me if... if I want to penetrate you?"

John flinches internally, but he crams down the panic he feels rising in his chest and wills himself not to back down. "Yes. Yes, that's what I'm asking."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, and John is immersed in the sensation that overcomes him when Sherlock is scanning him for the purposes of making a deduction. He wishes he could become invisible. But hell, he's putting this out there; might as well let Sherlock see it all.

Finally, Sherlock speaks. "Do... do you _want_ me to penetrate you?"

"I asked you first." It's a juvenile response, but John is legitimately curious, and the longer this conversation goes on, the more pressing the answer seems.

"I hadn't really considered it."

"Ever?"

Sherlock's gaze falls back to his petri dish, and John notes he's picked up his pencil and is twirling it between his fingers absent-mindedly. The conversation is making him uncomfortable.

"I didn't really think... it was on the table. What with your... sexual... issues."

"My _sexual issues?"_ Now John's just offended. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock's eyes snap up to meet his, and to John's surprise, they're cold and accusatory. "Well, what do you want me to call it, John 'not-gay' Watson? You don't consider yourself homosexual even though you've been fucking a man on and off for the better part of a decade. I understand I'm some sort of miraculous exception to your heteronormative standards, and that's fine, it really is. But excuse me for not thinking you'd be open to having a cock up your arse by those measures."

John is gobsmacked. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, blinking rapidly. Sherlock stares him down.

"Is that... is that really how you think I feel about you? I'm _open_ about us now, Sherlock, I tell people you're my partner, I consider Rosie _our_ daughter, I'm not some closet-case homophobe trying to sweep you under the rug."

For a moment John thinks Sherlock is going to go for it and really tear into him. He braces for the verbal impact.

But instead, Sherlock's shoulders slump slightly, and his gaze falls to the mug of tea in front of him, which he picks up and slowly sips.

Finally, he purses his lips. "No. No, John, I know that's not how you feel about me. And... it's fine, it really is, I shouldn't pressure you to be something you're not. It's just... it's hard sometimes. I'm gay. I like men. I always have. There's never been a shadow of doubt in my mind. It's just sometimes difficult being with someone who doesn't feel the same."

John takes a deep breath and nods. "I know. And I'm sorry for that. It's... it's confusing for me, too. The way I feel about you. The fact that I've never felt this way about another man. The fact that I've always been exclusively attracted to women. It's... it's hard. Sometimes I think I should go back into therapy."

Sherlock chuckles darkly. "I think I'd rather you not, considering how well that went the last time around."

John returns his smile a bit ruefully and their eyes meet, now laced with a fond understanding.

Sherlock leans back in his chair and takes another sip of tea before continuing. "All that said... it never occurred to me that penetrative sex would be an option for us the other way round. And I was fine with that, really, I was. But... are you offering?"

John chooses his next words carefully. "This... this may sound silly but... I think we're going to be together for a long time, Sherlock. And watching you on Saturday, I got to thinking that... that I would be depriving you of ever having that experience with someone."

"' _That experience'?"_ Sherlock's lips are curled up in faint amusement. "Is it really so amazing?"

"Penetrating someone? Hell yes. It's fucking fantastic. Huge fan over here." Sherlock barks out a laugh, and John grins back at him. "Seriously though, it _is_ amazing. And... and I know you hadn't had penetrative sex at all before we met, and I just started thinking that... it would mean that if you didn't get to penetrate me, you'd never... get to have that at all."

Sherlock looks pensive for a moment while he sips his tea. "Honestly? It's... it doesn't seem to be a priority for me. Can I be frank?"

John nods earnestly.

"I knew I was gay before I knew what sex was. And when I finally understood what gay sex was, even just in my fantasies, I was always... on the receiving end of things."

"Always?" John's mildly incredulous, and he does a poor job of hiding it.

"Well, perhaps with a few notable exceptions. But for the most part--"

"Exceptions? Who?"

"John, I thought we were having an adult conversation about our sex lives, not gossiping like adolescent schoolgirls."

"No. I'm sorry, I refuse to move on. This is crucial information. I have to know."

Sherlock sighs begrudgingly. "Did you see the movie _Wilde?"_

"Oh my GOD. Jude Law. You wanted to bugger Jude Law in _Wilde."_ John all but cackles with glee.

"Oh, shut UP, John. Jude Law is hardly an unusual target for sexual desire."

"No, no, it's too good! You even remember his name! It's adorable! Oh, this is rich. Do you have a VCR in your Mind Palace? No, don't tell me, the mental image is too perfect. Don't spoil it." Sherlock rolls his eyes and half-heartedly chucks his pencil at John, who bats it away easily. "Oh my God. Jude Law. Your celebrity crush. I love it."

Sherlock is laughing now, too. "Fine. Laugh all you want. I still can't believe you had it bad for Princess Layla in that ridiculous bikini getup."

"Oh, me and half the civilized world. And don't make this about me. This is about you. And your fantasies of buggering Jude Law. Shall I pencil us in for some Victorian role play this weekend?"

"Sure. And you'll be Jude?"

John's laughter dies down as he remembers the real reason why they're having this conversation in the first place. He clears his throat and shifts uncertainly.

Sherlock's smile fades as well, but his face is still soft and open. "Honestly, John. The whole penetration thing... it doesn't matter to me either way. Hell, I'd have gone the rest of my life a virgin if it meant I could have spent it with you. The fact that you were willing to engage in any of it... well, that was just a lucky turn-up. But I was prepared to take nothing at all. Just you."

Sherlock does this sometimes; completely take John's breath away with blazing moments of pure honesty. Sherlock rarely says "love" to John aloud, but these moments speak so much louder than that ever could. John basks in the openness of his affection, and feels his lips turning up into a smile. He meets Sherlock's eyes unwaveringly.

"That means a lot to me, Sherlock. It really does. But... I want you to have it all. The full range of human experiences."

"' _Full range of human experiences?'_ Isn't that the excuse most normal people give for why they decide to have children?"

"Yes, I suppose that's probably where I've heard it before."

"And you're using it as an argument for why I should stick my cock up your arse."

"Never said I was normal."

"No, and thank God for that." They both laugh, then lapse back into thoughtful silence.

"How about this, Sherlock: Think about it. And just let me know if you want to. I'll... I'll do my best to make it happen."

"Alright, then."

"Alright, then." John rises to his feet and turns to make his way to go pick up Rosie from Mrs. H.

"John?" He pauses and turns to look back at Sherlock, who is gazing at him as though he's hung the moon. "Thank you."

Two weeks pass without incident. Well, there are _incidents:_ The Incident of the Toxic Mold Petri Dish Escape, The Incident of the Missing Dressing Gown, The Incident of the Sleepless Toddler... but nothing outside the ordinary. Sherlock works on his experiment and solves two easy cases (he declares them fours at best, but John all but forces him out of the flat lest he start crawling up the walls with frustration). John works a few shifts at the surgery, takes Rosie on outings about town, meets Stamford for drinks, and finishes the crime novel he's been reading for what feels like the past decade. They have several lovely rounds of unremarkable but satisfying sex. They order carry-out and drink tea. They squabble and make up. Life goes on.

It's late on an unassuming Wednesday night when Sherlock clambers up the staircase and blusters into the sitting room carrying a nondescript plastic bag. John recognizes it immediately and rises from where he'd been lounging on the sofa with the paper and steers Sherlock directly into the kitchen.

"Straight into the tupperware, Sherlock."

"But John, it's--"

"I know exactly what it is. New body parts from Molly. And as we discussed, they now have a designated location in the fridge: in the tupperware on the second shelf."

"But it's--"

"Sherlock. No."

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh before begrudgingly flinging open the door to the fridge, retrieving the tupperware, placing the bag inside, and returning the bin to its spot on the shelf.

"Thank you."

"Hrmph."

"Come on, don't be like that. I said 'thank you.'" John sidles forward and places his hands on Sherlock's slim hips, then pulls him close to place a kiss on his plush lips.

"Mmmm."

John pulls away briefly. "I was hoping for a 'You're welcome,' but I suppose that will have to do."

Sherlock smiles down at him and leans back in to continue their kiss, deepening it with inklings of fervor. His hands travel to John's hair, threading his fingers through it, his tongue brushing past John's lips with practiced ease.

Oh. So it was going to be like that, then.

John pulls away reluctantly. "Alright, you. Good day, then?"

"It could be better." Sherlock steps forward and leans in again, but John places a placating hand on his chest, holding him back.

"Did you eat dinner?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rights himself, hip jutting out, arms folded in front of him, the perfect picture of indignant exasperation. "I went to the cafeteria with Molly."

"Not what I asked."

"Yes, I ate. I had some of Molly's crisps."

John turns around to rummage through the cupboards. "Not quite a well-balanced meal, then. Let me make you some--"

"John, I ate lunch today. A whole sandwich. I don't need more." Sherlock is crowding in behind where John's standing, wrapping his arms around his waist, and begins to trail a line of kisses down the back of John's neck.

John resigns himself to failure and capitulates, his hands going lax where they were resting on the cupboard handles. He leans his head back, offering more of his neck to Sherlock's onslaught. Sherlock hums his approval, sensing victory, and presses in closer, flush against John's back. 

John braces his hands on the counter as Sherlock works him over. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation of Sherlock's plush lips and wicked tongue performing their magic along every inch of exposed skin above the collar of his jumper. After a spell, he makes to turn around to kiss Sherlock properly, but Sherlock's hands tighten around his waist and hold him in place.

The first press takes him by surprise. John had been able to feel the stirrings of Sherlock's arousal against his backside, but there's nothing incidental about the way Sherlock thrusts forward against John's arse. John's breath catches in his throat. His eyes fly open. His knuckles whiten as his fingers clench the countertop.

Sherlock does it again.

It feels... good, John supposes. There's nothing objectionable about it. Feeling Sherlock's arousal pressed against him is enjoyable, the knowledge that he was turning Sherlock on sending sparks of sensation to his own groin. But... he's never had Sherlock behind him. Not like this, anyway. 

But he'd offered it. No reason not to give it a try.

John lets out a low hum and arches his back slightly, pressing his buttocks back to grind against Sherlock's erection. 

Sherlock lets out an audible gasp. He thrusts forward again, fingers tightening around John's hips, the sound of the friction between his trousers and John's jeans appearing impossibly loud in the silence of the kitchen. For some reason, he wildly thinks about wishing he'd left the telly on--it's far too quiet in here.

John lets his head fall forward and rolls his hips, attempting to refocus. Sherlock stutters, momentarily thrown off-rhythm, then picks up the pace again with renewed determination. There can be no mistaking his intentions.

John closes his eyes. This isn't so bad. He feels strangely vulnerable, boxed in against the counter with Sherlock hovering behind him, over him, holding him in place. But it's fine. It's all fine. He trusts Sherlock. He can do this. He takes a deep breath.

The smell of formaldehyde is overwhelming. He hates that smell. It reminds him of his Army days, the chemicals they'd use to preserve the bodies of the dead to be shipped back home. It churns up feelings that he'd long since thought were buried. He's never told Sherlock, but it's why he's so on-edge in morgues.

"Stop."

Sherlock releases his hold on John immediately and steps back, putting a few inches of space between them. Slowly, John opens his eyes.

The world feels blurry and surreal. He blinks a few times until the countertop comes into focus, then turns around.

Sherlock is standing stock-still, eyes wide and concerned, tinged with bewilderment.

"...John? Are you... are you alright? Was that... wrong?"

"No, no, it was fine. It wasn't you, it wasn't you at all. Well, I mean, it _was_ you, but not... _you_ you..." He's fighting to get the words out right, but Sherlock is looking increasingly panicked with each passing second. "You smell bad."

The look of concern on Sherlock's face is quickly replaced with one of offense. "Beg your pardon?"

John grins, attempting to lighten the mood. "I just mean... formaldehyde. You've been working in the morgue all day, and you reek of the stuff." John reaches forward and grabs Sherlock's hand. "Come on. Let's get in the shower and get you cleaned off."

And determinedly, he leads them down the hall to the bathroom, flicks on the taps, and starts to strip. Sherlock follows suit unquestioningly, and before too long John is guiding him under the steamy spray. 

They kiss lazily under the water as they pass the bar of soap back and forth between them, alternatively washing their own bodies and each other's. The sharp smell of formaldehyde is quickly replaced with the soothing one of sandalwood, and John can feel his erection returning to full mast as their kisses become increasingly heated. He pulls Sherlock close to him and grinds their hardness together, the heat slippery and delicious as it passes between them. Sherlock lets out a shuddering sigh.

And then his hand is running slowly along John's spine until it comes to rest on his sacrum. They both pause.

Sherlock's lips leave John's and he stares down into John's eyes. There's a question there. John wills himself to give the answer.

"Yes. Go ahead, Sherlock."

Sherlock bites his lip, looking suddenly incredibly young and uncertain.

"It's alright. I'll tell you to stop if I need to."

Sherlock nods, and with infinite slowness, he moves his other hand to pull John's cheek aside, opening him. Slowly, Sherlock trails his fingers down until his pointer finger is resting ever so gently against John's entrance.

John takes a deep breath, and nods.

Sherlock gives him a small smile in return, but he doesn't move his fingers. Instead, he lowers his eyes almost shyly. "Have you... have you done this before? With your fingers? I realise I've never asked."

John shakes his head. "I haven't."

It's Sherlock's turn to take a deep breath. "Alright. If that's, um... If it's okay with you, I'll just... I think maybe we can, um, get you prepped and clean in the shower, and then move to the bedroom? I don't think trying this standing up is a good idea for the... um, for the first time. It can be... it can be sort of painful standing up, until you figure out the angle."

John nods quickly, recalling the first time he'd penetrated Sherlock while he was standing. It had taken them a good 10 minutes of awkward shuffling and repositioning before they'd worked it out, and by then the shower water had run cold, resulting in a rather frantic and unsatisfactory conclusion to the experiment. They'd since gotten it down to an art, but that first time had been... well, rather unpleasant for them both.

Sherlock swallows and bites his lip again.

"Hey. Look at me." Sherlock raises his eyes to meet John's, and John smiles warmly at him. "It's alright. We're going to figure this out, just like everything else. Just you and me."

Sherlock breaks into a smile as well, and the tension seems to melt away as he leans in to give John a searing kiss. At the same time, he presses his finger slowly inside.

The sensation is strange, and John gasps into Sherlock's mouth as the feeling of it washes over him. He hadn't been lying--he really has never done this, not even to himself (perhaps a side-effect of his repressed sexuality? out of queer panic? out of homophobia? Just something else to unpack with that therapist he kept meaning to call...), and it's so different from anything he's ever experienced before, his brain seems uncertain of how to process it. He drops his head to rest in the crook of Sherlock's neck and breathes. 

Sherlock begins to move his finger in and out.

It's slow, agonizingly slow, and John is eternally grateful. He still can't process the sensations that are lighting up his nervous system like a switchboard, making everything feel bright and sharp. But gradually, he feels his body melt into the sensation. He begins to relax.

Sherlock curls his finger and unerringly finds John's prostate.

It's as though all the air has been punched out of him. He stumbles forward, clinging to Sherlock almost helplessly, spreading his legs as wide as the base of the tub allows, willing the sensation to continue. 

Sherlock shifts, stepping forward with his right foot to place his leg between John's. For a moment John is mystified by his intentions, but then Sherlock guides him forward gently so that John's cock rubs against his thigh and _oh_ the sensation of it is incredible--John thrusts forward to delight in the friction on his cock, and the feeling of pressure inside his arse begins to feel like a distant afterthought.

Sherlock is careful but deliberate and purposeful. He alternates light strokes against John's prostate with long, slow thrusts of his finger into and out of him, stretching his rim until the burn subsides. John continues to thrust against his thigh all the while, ratcheting up his own arousal as Sherlock preps him. Soon, Sherlock is pushing into him with two fingers and John is trembling from head to toe, torn between anxiety and desire.

He was going to do this. He was going to let a man fuck him. 

Panic rears in the back of his mind. What the hell he was he doing? This wasn't his place. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He shouldn't want this.

But wait, _wait._ He wasn't just letting any man fuck him, He was letting _Sherlock_ fuck him. And Sherlock loved him and worshipped him and hell, Sherlock had _died_ for him, and whatever it was that John was so afraid of, it had no place here in these sacred rites between them. There was no place for fear here.

He lets out a strangled shout and thrusts more frantically against Sherlock's thigh. The pressure from Sherlock's fingers against his prostate is feeling insurmountably overwhelming, and he's torn between the desire to come and the desire to draw it out, to suspend himself in this altered state forever, maddened with the heated _want_ of it all.

And then Sherlock's fingers are gone and he's gazing into John's eyes with a look of determination. "I think you're ready. Do you... do you want to take this to the bedroom?"

John nods.

Sherlock switches the water off and they towel themselves dry in silence. The tension between them is so high John feels like he's drowning in it.

They make their way to the bedroom, and Sherlock strips off the duvet and tosses it onto the floor. He lays down a towel in the center of the bed. Since when was Sherlock considerate enough to put down a towel on their sheets? John's brain feels like it's in a tailspin.

But then they're kissing and Sherlock is guiding John to the center of the bed and lowering him down lovingly, reverently, spreading his legs and murmuring things into John's ears that he can't quite process. John lets it all happen.

And then Sherlock is perched on his knees between John's spread legs, coating his fingers with lube and pressing them inside as John arches and keens. John grips the sheets and bears down against the pressure. Sherlock's got three fingers inside him this time. He curls his toes and grits his teeth.

"Okay. Okay, um... pillow." Sherlock is muttering seemingly to himself as he grabs a pillow and turns his attention back to John. "Um, just lift... lift your hips up, yes, like that. Unless--oh, wait, unless... do you want to turn over? I think we did it that way my first time? Do you think that was better? Maybe it would be easier?" He stares down expectantly at John.

John wills himself to form a coherent sentence. "I...I don't know, Sherlock. I think it's okay like this? I can see your face. That's... that's good, I think."

"Okay." Sherlock nods determinedly and taps John's hip. John raises his hips and Sherlock slips the pillow underneath them. Their eyes meet.

John swallows. He feels lost. 

Sherlock looks completely overwhelmed as well. His eyes are skittish, darting from John's face to his arse to somewhere beyond the headboard, as if he's not quite sure where to look.

John reaches down to grab the backs of his own thighs and pulls his legs up to his chest, offering himself.

He can see Sherlock's Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard, staring down at John. Then he seems to steel himself. He leans forward and lines up his cock against John's hole. John wills himself to relax. Sherlock presses inside.

It hurts. John lets out a garbled "hhhrnngh" and clenches his hands, his fingernails digging into the skin of his thighs. Despite his best efforts, he can feel himself seizing up against the relentless girth of Sherlock's cock. He throws his head back and drags in a breath, begging his body to cooperate.

"John? John, are you alright? Can I keep going.?"

"Yes." John's voice sounds tight and strained, even in his own ears.

Then, agony. He feels like he's being split in two. He shouts again, but it's mingled with a moan from Sherlock as he sinks deeper into John's heat. 

Sherlock freezes again. John breathes. He adjusts. The pain recedes. He's going to be alright. He can do this. He nods, slamming his eyes shut and bracing himself against the invasiveness as Sherlock pushes forward once more.

When Sherlock pauses again, John gasps out a few desperate breaths. 

"John? Are you alright?"

"Yes. How much further?"

"I'm, um. I'm about halfway?"

 _Halfway?_ There's no way he could be fucking _serious._ John feels so full he can't imagine going any further. It's impossible, surely he would break, there's no way he could...

No. _No._ Sherlock does this _all the damn time._ Hell, Sherlock does this _on a weekly basis_ for John. The least John can do for him is let him experience the same.

"Okay. That's. That's fine. It's all fine. Keep going."

"Oh...um, okay. Okay. I'll just... do it all at once, maybe?"

"Yes. Fine. Do it."

John feels Sherlock repositioning himself and the next thing he knows, Sherlock is leaning over him completely, bracing himself on the headboard. With one slow thrust of his hips, Sherlock drives himself all the way home.

John arches and cries out. Sherlock's cock feels impossibly enormous, and his body clenches down in its last desperate attempt at self-preservation. John wills himself to stay calm, but his breaths are coming alarmingly fast, his chest rising and falling in frantic gasps as he struggles to bring himself back under control.

"John? John?" Sherlock sounds so lost that John forces himself to open his eyes. When his gaze meets Sherlock's, he's shocked at what he sees.

Sherlock's eyes are full of tears. He's staring down at John with a look that appears to be at the edge of panic, clearly fighting to keep himself under control. His mouth is slack and he looks almost as though he's about to be sick. His brow is deeply furrowed with concern.

"Nnngh. I'm alright, Sherlock. It's okay. We're okay. Go ahead."

Sherlock freezes. John can't move.

Then--

"Stop. Stop, stop, stop." Sherlock is sitting up, pulling out, clambering away from John onto the foot of the bed as though John's body has burned his skin. 

John pushes himself into a sitting position. He's entirely disorientated, but Sherlock seems to be on the brink of a panic attack, and he has no idea what the hell is going on.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? It's okay, you were doing fine, we were okay."

"No! No, John, that wasn't okay. That wasn't... us. That wasn't how we are. You... you're supposed to be in control. You're supposed to know how to do this. I'm supposed to do what you say. That's how we are. That's what. That's what this is."

John is entirely bewildered. "Sherlock, that's... I mean, maybe that's how it is when we _unwind_ together, but we weren't... we weren't unwinding tonight. We were just..."

Sherlock is shaking is head violently. "No. No, John, you don't understand. I want. I want you to be in control during sex. I want you to know what to do. I don't... I don't want to be responsible for... that. Between us. It's too much. The sensations, they're too much during sex, I can't focus, can't deduce. The only way I can handle it is because I know you're in control, that you've got me. I can't... I can't do this. I can't be in charge of this. It's too much, it's overload, I'm... I _can't."_ The last 'can't' is more of a wail than a word, and in an instant, John is beside Sherlock, pulling him into his arms.

"Christ, Sherlock. Okay, it's alright, it's okay now, I've got you. We're okay. Shhh, I've got you now." Sherlock folds into him willingly, as though he's trying to bury himself in John's form.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John."

"Sherlock, there's nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all. But why didn't you just tell me?"

"I didn't know. I didn't know how I'd react. I suspected, maybe, but it's been a long time since I've felt overwhelmed during sex. Most of the time, it feels like... it feels like you keep my senses in check. And I can just... let go."

John nods and pulls him close. "Alright. That's... that's good to know."

He holds Sherlock for a moment as they lapse into silence. But then Sherlock shifts.

"John?"

"Mmmm?"

"Will you... will you fuck me?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Are you... are you sure? Maybe we should just cool it down for the night, take a step back--"

"No. I need it, John. Need you. Please."

Those words seem to go straight to John's cock. For every indication he'd had that his arousal was receding, he's suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to get off.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, fuck, yeah, Sherlock. Yes."

"Mmm." Sherlock disentangles himself from John's arms and turns around, propping himself on his hands and knees, then looks back over his shoulder to meet John's eyes. "Come on, John. Now."

"Give me a sec, we need to get you prepped, we haven't--"

"No. No prep. Just lube yourself up and take me."

"Sherlock, I--"

"John, NOW."

John doesn't hesitate. He grabs the lube from the nightstand and slicks up his length before gripping Sherlock's hips and impaling him in one stroke.

And _God,_ he's tight, and he's crying out and his hands scrabble to grab the headboard as John pulls back and thrusts forward again, _hard,_ eliciting a shout from Sherlock as John commandeers his body completely.

And then it's easy. God, it's so simple, it's so _right,_ the way that they are. John is brutal, taking Sherlock fast and hard, Sherlock's hole feeling raw and hot from the lack of prep. Sherlock takes everything John is giving him and screams for more, _begs, moans, pleads,_ arches his back and cries out John's name over and over, reduced to his most basic form as John pushes him beyond the breaking point.

Sherlock comes untouched, John pummeling his prostate past the point of comfort before he collapses onto the bed in a puddle of his own come. John continues to thrust into Sherlock's prone form as he moans helplessly beneath him, pinned into place by John's firm hands. Finally John comes, expelling himself in hot, urgent waves, filling Sherlock as deeply as he can muster. Sherlock all but sobbing with relief.

And then as suddenly as it started, it's over. John pulls out and flops onto his back next to Sherlock. They're both covered in sweat and gasping for air, but John can see Sherlock's face is peaceful and serene. John smiles over at him. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed.

They lay like that for a while, Sherlock on his stomach and John on his back, face to face in post-coital bliss. Finally, John heaves himself into a sitting position.

"Stay here. I'm just going to grab a flannel." He makes his way to the bathroom and grabs two flannels, which he runs under warm water. The first he uses to clean himself up. The lube feels uncomfortably cool between his cheeks, and he winces in pain as he runs the cloth over his hole. The sensation is anything but pleasant. He has no idea how Sherlock manages.

He brings the other flannel back to the bedroom and kneels on the bed, gently parting Sherlock's cheeks to inspect him for tearing. There is none, despite the lack of prep--there's some inflammation, but nothing for concern. As gingerly as he can, John wipes the area clean, wincing in empathy. It's the first time he can remember inspecting Sherlock's hole post-sex and not finding it arousing.

He turns Sherlock over and wipes down his stomach, then removes the come-covered towel from the bed and throws the lot of it into the laundry hamper. He fetches the duvet from off the floor and throws it over the bed, then joins Sherlock under the covers. He pulls him in close.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, John. Thank you."

"I'm sorry you got overwhelmed. I didn't realise sex could be like that for you."

Sherlock nods. "It's just... it's a lot of information to process. You know how I am when there's too much input. But you... you manage it for me. That's... I think that's why we work as well as we do. You make it alright."

John presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock's mop of curls. "I'm glad, Sherlock. I'm glad I can do that for you. I'm glad you trust me with that."

"Mmmm." Sherlock absently reaches up to clasp John's dog tags from where they're resting on his own chest. John smiles down at him. John had given Sherlock his dog tags as a symbol of trust following a particularly intense yet well-negotiated session, but he's only now beginning to realise the depth of what that actually means to Sherlock. The poignancy of it is beautiful.

Secure in each other's arms, they drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the prolonged angst-fest on this one; I promise the next three chapters will just be getting the sexytrain back on the tracks!
> 
> And thanks for the comments! Loving the feedback, please post your thoughts and feels!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take an...unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter with no disclaimers! Just a bit of solo sexytimes...

It should have been easy to let it go. To simply write it off as a failed experiment (like the time they'd tried Star Wars-themed role-play, or the time they'd attempted a new position whilst in the shower that Sherlock had found on the internet, necessitating stitches for Sherlock's knee and resulting in a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on the back of John's thigh). Occasional failure was the inevitable side effect of a sex life as varied as theirs, and John knows he should have no problem putting this particular incident behind them.

And yet.

And _yet._

John can't seem to put it out of his mind. Every time he's thrusting into the perfect tight heat of Sherlock's willing body, reveling in the overwhelming perfection of it, he thinks about how Sherlock will never know how this feels. He'll never know how good this part could be. He'll never never get to have someone like this. 

It seems maddeningly unfair.

John's not quite sure why he's so stuck on this point. He's self-aware enough to realise that a part of it must be entangled in the societally-ingrained notions of masculinity he's been surrounded by all his life (throughout his working-class upbringing, his days on the rugby team, during medical school, and then oh _God,_ the Army had been the worst of it...), but he has no idea how to free himself from this way of thinking. He can't help but feel he's depriving Sherlock of something profound, something meaningful, something that he, as a man, should experience at least once. Wasn't Sherlock even the _least bit_ curious?

Finally, he decides he's had enough. By God, he's going to do something about it. Sherlock wanted him to take charge? Captain John H. Watson had never shied away from a challenge. This, he could do. He _could._

Sherlock had been gone for three days, working a case for a private client that involved a considerable amount of lab work to be done at a secure facility in York. John had offered to tag along but Sherlock had declined-- the work would be scientifically significant but tedious, with little possibility for danger or intrigue-- John's services would not be required.

So he'd stayed behind in London and taken the opportunity to do all the things that were nearly impossible to accomplish with Sherlock around: he'd cleaned the flat from top to bottom, he'd grabbed dinner with Harry and made it through the entire meal without being interrupted by endless texts on his mobile, he'd put in a few extra hours at the surgery and gotten a head start on his paperwork for the next week. Rosie had luckily fallen back into a regular sleeping pattern, so John was feeling well-rested and refreshed. 

He was... bored.

It's such a strange sensation. Most of the time he feels like he's running on a hamster wheel, attempting to keep the household in order, raise Rosie, and be there for Sherlock. But now that he's on top of it, he feels rather at a loss.

He picks up his mobile and checks the time. No phones were allowed in the laboratory where Sherlock was working, but it's nearly midnight; surely Sherlock would have left the lab by then.   
He moves to text him, then changes his mind. Perhaps a FaceTime? Maybe Sherlock was feeling a bit wound up and could use some stress relief. John smiles to himself as he presses the call button, weaving a vague fantasy about a few choice activities they could engage in.

But it was not to be. The call rings out with no answer, and John's left disappointed and half-erect.

But maybe... maybe this was just the opportunity he'd been looking for?

Resolutely, he rises from his chair and makes his way to the bedroom, where he unceremoniously strips off his pajama bottoms and pants. He fishes the lube out of the drawer of the nightstand, and pulls back the duvet before sprawling across the center of the bed. He spreads his legs and plants his feet firmly on the mattress. He takes a deep breath.

Surely, there must be something to this. As a doctor he's well aware of the effects of prostate stimulation, but he's seen Sherlock come apart at the seams often enough to know that there's more to it than the pure mechanics. Sherlock's reaction any type of anal play was so strong that there _must_ be something truly transcendent about it; Sherlock's expression whenever John penetrated him was nothing short of utter bliss.

Slowly, deliberately, John slicks up two fingers, and reaches back to his hole.

He prods gently at first, working over his rim, not even really penetrating himself, just letting the sensation wash over him. The area is sensitive, there's no doubt about that, and while it's not strictly _pleasurable,_ there's nothing objectionable about it, either. It just... _is._

He sighs and lets himself relax. Then he dips just the tip of one finger inside.

It's warm and tight and not altogether dissimilar to the way Sherlock feels. John focuses on the way his body reacts to the intrusion; he alternates presses inside with light circles around his rim, coating himself thoroughly with lube until the slick sensation begins to send shivers up his spine. There's a certain degree of anticipation building, and he's somewhat shocked to find he wants _more._

Before he can overthink it, he presses in with two fingers, up to his second knuckle this time. There's a bright burst of pain followed by a dull throbbing sensation, but he's startled to discover how quickly his body adjusts. He feels full in a way that's both foreign and comforting, and he leans into it, running his fingers against his walls and adjusting the angle of penetration until the burn has receded entirely. He begins to thrust his fingers.

With his other hand, he grips his cock. He's still half-hard, much to his relief, and he works himself in tandem until he's fully erect and his fingers have sunk in to the last knuckle. He fights back a moan.

He twists his wrist in an attempt to finger his prostate. He remembers Sherlock saying he would occasionally finger himself during masturbation but the angle was never right, and John's beginning to understand what he meant; he manages a few light brushes but can't maintain any sort of consistent rhythm, especially while he's attempting to continue to stroke his cock with his free hand. He grits his teeth in frustration.

His body has started to feel tight and overheated and he wants to _come._ He feels close, but it's as if he's reached a plateau in his arousal and can't push himself any higher. He closes his eyes and tries to think of Sherlock, of what it would be like if Sherlock were here, doing this to him, penetrating him with those perfect and precise violinist's fingers, touching him in all the right places, making him writhe and cry out and moan. He sucks in a breath as a drop of precome lands on his stomach.

God, he's close, he's so _close,_ if he could just get a little _deeper,_ get a little more _pressure..._

His eyes fly open.

The vibrator.

But... would that be too much? He knows Sherlock adores it, but this is John's first time experiencing any kind of penetration-- would it overwhelm him completely and put him off?

Or... or would it be incredible?

What the hell.

"In for a penny..." he mutters under his breath as he withdraws his fingers, wipes them hastily on the sheets (great, he'll have to do another load of laundry tomorrow... oh _hell,_ Watson, give it a rest, keep your head in the game...) and snatches the vibrator out of the drawer. He slicks it up and gently presses it inside.

He arches and gasps. It's not much wider than his two fingers and is pleasantly much smoother, but the angled tip provides an extra level of sensation that he'd not been privy to before. Gently, cautiously, he adjusts the angle until--

There.

Oh, holy hell, right _there._

He freezes, giving his body time to adjust to the onslaught of sensation. Once he's relaxed a bit, he makes a few hesitant thrusts.

Jesus _Christ._

_Yes._

That is... that is quite something.

He grips his cock in his free hand and begins to stroke himself again, timing it with gentle presses of the vibrator against his prostate. It feels deliciously arousing, and John feels like he's about to crawl out of his own skin with the thrill of it.

But now... dare he?

When he'd grabbed the vibrator, he wasn't sure he would even turn it on; he'd rather been hoping just a little added pressure would be all it would take to get him over the edge. But now he's filled with a blazing curiosity. He can't resist.

He flicks it on.

And oh _GOD._ The sensation hits him like a tsunami and he loses all sense of rhythm with both hands. It feels like his entire world has collapsed down to the tiny nub of nerves buried deep inside of him. He can feel his channel clenching down on the vibrator, pulling it deeper inside of him, and he begins to thrust it up inside himself, bearing down as his free hand clenches and twists in the sweat-soaked sheets.

It's almost like an out-of-body experience. He's distantly aware that he's agonizingly aroused, but he's floating, hostage to his body's whims.

Eventually, he comes back to himself. It takes him a moment to take stock, as everything feels hazy and disorientated, but he's eventually able to piece a few things together.

He hasn't come and his erection has flagged to half-mast, but he's insanely aroused. He can feel his balls pulled up tight against his body in preparation of release as he works the vibrator into himself in undulating motions. There is no pain, and no real discomfort, just the pressing sensation of wanting to ejaculate but lacking the means to release.

He forces himself to take a deep breath and clear his mind. He thinks back to years ago, when he was doing online research about penetrative anal sex in preparation for being with Sherlock the first time. He remembers reading about how not all men were able to stay erect during penetrative sex, but their lack of erection and inability to come during anal stimulation didn't necessarily indicate a lack of enjoyment. At the time he'd been completely befuddled by the seemingly incongruous information, but now he's beginning to understand; he does indeed feel extremely aroused, but he feels completely incapable of bringing himself to orgasm in this position. He's slightly relieved to remember that this isn't abnormal.

He allows himself to revel in the sensation for a few more minutes, experimenting with angle and pressure and speed. It all feels incredibly good, and his body feels like his veins are flowing with molten lava. He moans and arches again as he give the vibrator one more deep press before withdrawing it and setting it aside.

Quickly, he pours some lube into his dominant hand and begins to stroke himself feverishly.

In no time at all he's rock-hard, thrusting up into his fist as he imagines Sherlock on top of him, directing all of that ferocious grace and savage energy into fucking John into the mattress, his cock deep inside John, hitting all the right spots as Sherlock loses control like a wild animal, reaming into John's arse and filling him up with his come and--

_Oh._ Oh.

Oh.

His orgasm feels like it lasts forever. When he comes to, his chest and abdomen are streaked in a frankly shocking amount of come. His whole body is shaking and he's struggling to breathe. His muscles feel wrung-out and spent.

Holy shit.

Holy _shit._

All this time he'd been so caught up in what Sherlock was missing out on, it never occurred to John that he might benefit from the change-up as well. And yet here he was, recovering from his most intense orgasm in recent memory, all brought on by just a little self-penetration as foreplay. He can hardly dare imagine what it would be like with Sherlock's entire cock inside of him.

Holy shit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Business as usual... with a little turnabout.

It's nearly three weeks later when they wrap up the case of the Black Widow Murderer, following the tenuous (if tense) peace they'd struck with Greg and the rest of the Yard. It had been a long case-- nine days, to be exact, and the wear and tear was showing for them both. John was near delirious, the sleepless nights giving way to a bone-deep fatigue that permeated him to his core. Sherlock was all manic energy, reeking of nicotine and shaking from malnutrition.

But their night's not over.

Not by a long shot.

It's times like this that they need to _unwind_ more than ever.

The cab ride back to the flat is silent and tense. The adrenaline rush of the frantic chase through the abandoned Holloway Prison was wearing off, only be replaced by a different type of energy altogether. The anticipation is nearly palpable.

Sherlock's sliding out the door of the cab before it's rolled to a complete stop, and John bites back a smile at his level of enthusiasm. It's endearing, really, the way he gets right before they start--so ready to please, so adorably eager...it's so unlike his day-to-day personality that it catches John off-guard every time. And God, how he adores it.

Sherlock clambers up the stairs two at a time with John plodding in his wake. They've barely made it past the doorframe before John is grabbing him by the hair and pulling him forcefully to his knees. 

Sherlock folds without a fight, his form pliant and serene as he blinks up at John demurely from beneath shadowed lashes.

"Hands behind your back. Open your mouth."

Sherlock complies. John unzips his trousers and shoves himself brutally into Sherlock's mouth and begins to thrust.

Sherlock remains still and receptive, letting John fuck his mouth with single-minded intensity. John twists Sherlock's curls between his fingers and _pulls_ , eliciting a wanton moan from Sherlock. His eyes are closed, and he looks utterly blissed-out. John feels the tip of his cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat and suddenly, he's on the brink of coming.

He pulls out and shoves Sherlock sideways. Sherlock throws out his arm and catches himself just in time to prevent himself from toppling over entirely. Upon regaining his balance, he stares up at John from his place on the floor, panting through parted lips that glisten with saliva.

John tucks his rigid cock back into his trousers and zips them up.

"That's enough for now, sweetheart." Sherlock whimpers in protest. "No, none of that. Get up." Sherlock scrambles to his feet, his erection tenting the front of his trousers. John smiles at him lecherously.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go take a shower and get yourself clean and prepped. Use lube, because I won't be. I'm not giving you a time limit on your shower tonight, because I want you to do it right. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"When you're ready, I want you to meet me in the kitchen. There's no need to put on clothes. You're going to have a snack and drink some water when I say you will. Is that clear?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Go."

Sherlock disappears down the hallway without a word.

John makes his way to the bedroom to collect a few odds and ends for their session before heading to the kitchen to start preparing some food. By the time Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, there's a full pan of scrambled eggs on the back burner and a plate of freshly-buttered toast cooling on the counter. The kettle is on, and two mugs stand at the ready. The kitchen table is cleared of all experiments and debris. John is just finishing pouring a glass of water.

"There you are, sweetheart. You look gorgeous."

Sherlock blushes. "Thank you, John." It's true, he does look gorgeous, the ethereal lines of his body bared for John's enjoyment under the stark light of the kitchen. John's dog tags hang around Sherlock's neck, a reminder of everything that they share between them. Sherlock's cock is already beginning to harden, stirred to life by the juxtaposition between his nude form and John's fully-clothed one. The power imbalance makes Sherlock insatiable.

"Drink this entire glass of water for me."

Sherlock does so without complaint. John takes the empty glass and returns it to the counter.

Then as quickly as he can, before Sherlock can have time to process what's happening, John reels around and slams him bodily against the wall beside the fridge and leans in to latch his teeth firmly at the base of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock lets out a shout of surprise but goes limp the moment John runs his tongue along the fresh bite mark before moving along to the next inch of pale skin. He sinks his teeth in once more, sucking and nibbling as Sherlock trembles and tilts his head back, exposing himself to John's affections.

John works his neck over with practiced precision. He leaves a string of hickeys from Sherlock's left shoulder across the milky expanse of his protruding clavicle all the way to the other side. He keeps all the marks below collar-height; he knows he and Sherlock will need to go give their official statements at the Yard tomorrow, and he's not in the mood to deal with the knowing smirks and conspiratorial elbows and the salacious winks (and once, an offered high-five from a junior officer for "taking that arsehole down a peg"--a mistake John had made sure was never repeated).

Sherlock is putty in his hands. John shuffles his feet forward and Sherlock widens his stance instantly, his breathing rapid and coarse. He lets out a pitiful whine as John grinds his denim-covered hardness against Sherlock's exposed one; the friction must surely be painful, but Sherlock doesn't demure. He presses back enthusiastically and cries out.

Then just as quickly as he'd attacked, John takes a step back to put distance between them. Sherlock sinks bonelessly back against the wall, issuing faint whimpers as he chews his bottom lip. Christ, he looks wrecked already.

John grins and unfastens his trousers and begins to stroke his cock.

Sherlock knows better than to move. He simply remains leaning against the wall, letting John rake his eyes over his nude form as he pleasures himself. His hands hang limply at his sides, his palms slightly turned outwards and up, as though willing John to return to his grasp. John increases his speed and Sherlock moans beneath the heat of his gaze.

Finally, John is ready. He strides forward purposefully and bends to hoist Sherlock's left leg up around his waist. As soon as Sherlock has his balance, John presses him back against the wall with just enough force that he can lift his other leg up and latch his ankles together at the small of John's back. This provides John just enough leverage to be able to reach around and part Sherlock's cheeks with his right hand while lining up his own cock with his left. Then he lets gravity do the rest.

Sherlock sinks down on his length in one solid motion.

They both gasp at the perfection of it.

This position had taken a _lot_ of practice for the two of them, and at certain points, they'd been ready to give up on it entirely and write it off as impossible. Between their height difference and Sherlock's preposterously long legs, it had taken multiple rounds of rather frustrating experimentation before they found just the right compromise to make the angles and physics of the whole thing work.

But once it worked-- _Christ,_ it was worth every bruised knee and strained hamstring and sore back they'd sustained in the practice runs.

And tonight they've nailed it on the first try. John begins to thrust into Sherlock, taking care to apply force _back_ rather than _up_ \-- holding Sherlock up with his brute strength alone was basically impossible (as they'd discovered during their previous rounds of vigorous experimentation), but pushing him back into the wall was enough to keep Sherlock elevated so long as he kept his ankles locked around John's lower back to hold himself in place.

Sherlock howls as John reams him, his thighs clenching deliciously around John's sides as he holds on for all he's worth. John's not able to thrust particularly deep, but the heat and the friction and the feral nature of it all are more than enough to stimulate him. Sherlock's cock is trapped between them, smearing precome onto their stomachs as John murmurs filthy words of encouragement into Sherlock's ear.

"Oh, yes, sweetheart, just like that, you take me so well. Christ, love, you're so tight tonight, so perfect, all for me, just for me, oh God, I'm going to _ruin_ you, love. Make you take my cock so many times you won't be able to walk for days..."

"Yes, John, God, yes, yes, nnnnngh...."

"Give you so many loads you won't be able to stop leaking..."

"CHRIST, John, oh God..."

"Fill you up until you can't take any more..."

Sherlock goes completely non-verbal and is reduced to issuing frantic whining pants as John continues to slam into him.

John can feel himself getting close. He knows how he wants to finish and he's pretty sure the physics of it will work out and that he's strong enough to make the maneuver, but it _does_ have the potential to end in disaster... but what the hell?

He grips Sherlock solidly by the buttocks and issues a single command: "Hang on."

Sherlock's arms lock tight around John's neck and his legs squeeze around his waist. In that moment, John pulls him back from the wall, pivots 180 degrees, and takes the two steps over to the recently-cleared kitchen table, where he unceremoniously deposits Sherlock flat on his back without ever pulling out.

"Hands above your head. Now. Hold onto the edge of the table. Don't let go." Sherlock complies with John's commands as quickly as he can give them. His cock lies angry and red and drooling precome onto his stomach, and John all but aches in sympathy for what he's about to do.

"Don't come." And with that, John hoists Sherlock's legs onto his shoulders and proceeds to pummel into him relentlessly.

This angle allows him to penetrate Sherlock much more deeply than their previous position ever could, and he bites back a shout as he delights in the tight heat enveloping the entirety of his cock. Sherlock is wailing like a banshee, head thrown back in ecstasy, and John sends a quick prayer to whatever deity may be listening that Mrs. H. remembered to turn on the white noise machine they'd purchased for her a few months ago after yet another night of her banging on the ceiling with a broomstick to quiet them down.

His orgasm rushes over him without much warning, but he doesn't bother trying to hold back. He grips Sherlock's thighs and holds him firmly in place and grinds into him with a long, low moan.

Sherlock utters a sound of slight surprise but spreads his legs further, and John rides out the aftershocks with a few intense thrusts, forcing his come as deeply into Sherlock as he can manage. Without pulling out, he turns and grabs the anal plug from where he'd hidden it beneath an oven mitt, then gently replaces his cock with the plug. Sherlock hisses through his teeth.

John steps back and admires the scene as he tucks his spent cock back into his trousers, and lets out a hum of affirmation. 

"Lovely. Alright, you can move your hands. Sit down at the table, now."

Sherlock is slow to move, his gaze dazed and his cock hanging heavily between his legs and he pulls himself slowly into a standing position and makes his way over to the chair. He winces as he sits, and John gazes fondly down at him.

"Good. Here's what's going to happen next: for every bite of toast and eggs you take, you're going to get a little reward. If you finish what I put on your plate, you get to come. How does that sound, sweetheart?"

Sherlock gazes up and John from beneath heavy lids. "Good, John."

"Excellent." All business, John serves up a plate of eggs and toast, and he pours Sherlock a cup of tea. He sets it all on the table before him. Then without hesitation, he drops to his knees and takes Sherlock's cock into his mouth.

John rarely performs oral sex on him when they're unwinding unless he's edging him, and this turn of events seems to have caught Sherlock completely off-guard. Sherlock jumps with surprise and lets out a yelp as his knee bangs the underside of the table. 

John pulls off immediately. "You alright, there, sweetheart?"

"Yes, John."

"Alright. Go ahead now, eat your dinner."

"Mmmm." Sherlock makes a vague noise of affirmation. John's been toying with the concept of sexual rewards for eating, and the results have been relatively favourable thus far. Though Sherlock rarely takes the bait when they're not unwinding, during their sessions he seems willing to exchange one act for another, and John's found it's often the fastest way to get some calories into him following a case before things get too far along sexually.

Sherlock makes his way diligently through his plate of toast and eggs. John's eyes watch him fastidiously to make sure Sherlock is continuing to take bites, and every time he does, he's rewarded with a decadent slide of John's lips to the base of his cock and then back up to the top where John's lips come to rest as he delicately tongues his slit until the next bite is ingested.

Eventually, the toast and eggs are gone and Sherlock's cock is pulsing in John's mouth, straining for release. Still, Sherlock doesn't come. He takes deep breaths through his nose to calm and focus himself, which he does every time John edges him. John loves watching him strain to maintain control like this; it makes him feel centred and purposeful, too. Sherlock's eyes drop down to meet John's as he sucks him. It's fucking electric.

John works him over slowly for a few more minutes, taking Sherlock to the edge and then backing off and watching him struggle to regain control. Sherlock's fingers resolutely grip the seat of the chair and he's chewing his lip with devoted fervour, but his eyes never leave John's.

Finally, John pulls off with an obscene _pop._

"Alright, sweetheart. Do you want to come?"

"Yes, please, John."

"Alright. My mouth or my hand?"

"Your choice, please, John."

John grins. Perfect answer.

"Alright, then. You can come whenever you're ready. No thrusting, and keep your hands on the chair." Then he lowers his mouth to swallow Sherlock as deeply as he can.

He bobs his head to stimulate the full length of Sherlock's shaft, using his left hand to stroke what little of it he can't take down. With his right hand, he fondles Sherlock's balls gently before pressing a finger lightly to his perineum.

Sherlock shouts and in his peripheral vision, John can see his fingers tightening on the seat of the chair.

"John! John, I'm... John, JohnJohnJohn--"

The salty flood of come fills John's mouth, and he swallows it down without hesitation. Sherlock grunts and moans through it, and when he's finished, John licks him clean with light flicks of his tongue while Sherlock trembles and flinches from the overstimulation.

Finally, John pulls away, and Sherlock slumps back in the chair, sated and content.

Unacceptable. They've barely begun.

John rises and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "On your feet. Now."

Sherlock struggles to comply, his legs unsteady from the vigorous fucking followed by the intense orgasm, and John automatically reaches out to wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. Sherlock leans into John without hesitation, and John smiles to himself as he guides Sherlock down the hallway to the bedroom.

Once there, John strips the duvet off the bed while Sherlock stands quietly at attention, awaiting orders. John reaches into the nightstand and pulls out the handcuffs, then turns to face Sherlock.

"On the bed." He holds up the cuffs. "You know what this is."

Sherlock clambers onto the bed and flops onto his back, then raises his arms up above his head in supplication, the flush of arousal already creeping across his cheeks.

Christ, he loves this.

They both do.

Grinning, John snaps one cuff around his left wrist before guiding the other through the slats of the headboard and attaching the other cuff to Sherlock's right. Then he grasps both hands, and Sherlock gently squeezes--their unspoken signal that blood flow is unimpeded, and Sherlock is ready to proceed.

"Alright, sweetheart. Here's what happens next. I need to eat dinner and take a shower, but I don't want you wandering off and getting distracted, so I'm going to leave you tied up here to think about all the things I'm going to do to you when I get back." Sherlock whimpers. "I want you hard again by the time I'm out of the shower. Is that understood?"

"Yes, John."

"Good." John then leans down and whispers more softly into Sherlock's ear. "There's a bobby pin on the mattress right by your hands if you need to unlock the cuffs while I'm gone. You can stop any time you need to. Okay?"

Sherlock averts his eyes but issues a light "Mmmhmmm." John accepts it; Sherlock hates it when John 'breaks' during a session to discuss safety, but John insists it's an important part of making sure they both keep things safe and consensual between them. He'd never leave Sherlock tied up unattended without an escape plan. 

Satisfied, John makes his way to the kitchen. The toast has gone cold and the eggs are a bit rubbery, but now's hardly the time for gourmet fare; it's still better than a majority of what he at the mess hall during his army days. He reheats the water and brews himself a fresh mug of tea, which he enjoys from the comfort of his chair in the sitting room. 

It's difficult feigning nonchalance at times like this, when he leaves Sherlock tied up while he goes about his business, but he's getting better at it. He actually manages to read (and process!) two lengthy newspaper articles before his attention begins to wander, and even after that he manages to devote at least another quarter hour to sifting through his emails before he finally can't focus anymore. Steeling his nerves, he rises and makes his way to the bathroom.

Under the steamy stream of the shower, he rinses off the grime accumulated throughout the past few days on the case. He's pretty sure he remembers showering yesterday morning--or was it the day before?--either way, it had been far too long, and his muscles finally begin to relax under the scalding water.

Eventually, he reaches out and grabs the small bottle of lube he'd placed atop the sink. It was time.

He preps himself with practiced efficiency. Ever since his pleasurable experiment with the vibrator last month, John had diligently allocated time in the shower three times a week for a bit of anal stimulation followed by a quick round of masturbation. He'd had to reserve it for the days that Sherlock left to go to the lab--he knows Sherlock mentally times his showers, as evidenced by the incident early on in their relationship, when Sherlock had asked John if he was failing to satisfy him sexually after noting that John had taken 176 seconds longer in the shower than normal. So discretion had been paramount.

In what feels like no time at all, John has three fingers inside himself, buried to the last knuckle. He still can't stimulate his prostate like this, but his body has responded well to the Pavlovian conditioning of his post-penetration wank, so he's still half-hard as he strokes himself with his left hand and twists his fingers with his right, making sure his rim is stretched and pliant.

He adds more lube than he usually does. He's only gotten to use the vibrator twice since his original experiment (again, it was nearly impossible to sneak anything past Sherlock, but John had managed-- or, if Sherlock had noticed, he certainly hadn't said anything, which seemed...unlikely), and he knows objectively that Sherlock's cock will be both wider and longer, not to mention less smooth. But he's prepped Sherlock enough to know about what it will take, and once he feels ready, he shuts off the taps, wipes off the excess lube from his cheeks and crack, and takes a deep breath.

He's nervous, but not panicked. There's none of the awkward trepidation or claustrophobic anxiety that had all but suffocated him the last time he'd tried this. He's only now realising what a fool he'd been for thinking that he should just go into it completely blind, without even having any idea what his own body wanted--and if _he_ didn't know what he wanted, how the hell had he expected _Sherlock_ to figure it out? He'd been stupid and scared. 

Not this time.

This time, he was prepared. He knew what he liked and what his body wanted. And now he was going to go get it.

He opens the door to the bedroom.

Sherlock is lying in the same place looking as though he hasn't moved a muscle. The only change is that his previously-spent cock is now lying hard and flushed against his stomach, and his breaths are coming in shallower pants. The chain of hickeys around his neck and across his chest have begun to bloom into a glorious mottle of aubergine blossoms. His pupils are dilated as his gaze swivels to John's, and John peers down at him with a smile.

"Hello there, sweetheart."

"Mmm. John." Sherlock parts his legs slightly, revealing just the hint of the plug peeking out from between his cheeks.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good, John." His words sound slurred. He's pretty far under.

"I'm glad to hear that. Are you ready to continue?"

"Yes, John."

"Excellent. For this next part, I'd like you to call me Captain. Will you do that for me?"

Sherlock's pupils dilate impossibly further. "Yes, Captain."

John hasn't made this request before when he's not been either in his uniform or fatigues, but he's pleased to see Sherlock is still amenable.

"Lovely." John grabs the lube from the nightstand and makes his way to the foot of the bed, then climbs up on his knees. "Spread your legs for me sweetheart, yes, just like that, let me see you." Sherlock complies, and John coats two of his fingers with lube before tracing them around Sherlock's rim, where it's stretched around the plug. 

Sherlock gasps. 

John grins, then gives the plug a light push and a twist.

Sherlock arches.

"Oh, very good, love. Keeping yourself nice and open for me, are you?"

"Yes, Captain."

"You're so good to me, sweetheart." With that, John leans up to kiss Sherlock deeply.

And for a time, that's all he does. He plunders Sherlock's mouth fully, never lowering his pelvis enough to allow their lengths to meet, never letting his hands wander across any of that perfect porcelain skin. He just kisses him, melting into the sensation of having Sherlock warm and pliant beneath him. Sherlock doesn't protest.

Eventually John trails his lips down Sherlock's ravaged neck to his left nipple, upon which he plants a wet kiss before pulling away to repeat the gesture on his right. Sherlock arches up into the sensation as John sits back on his heels to admire him.

Slowly, lightly, John begins to circle just his thumbs, feather-light, around the very outer edge of Sherlock's aureola. Sherlock hisses; his nipples are extremely sensitive, and John knows he can bring Sherlock to the edge of orgasm from a bit of nipple stimulation alone. He'll have to proceed carefully.

He teases Sherlock, circling his thumbs closer in towards his nipples and then retreating back out, never providing any pressure to the pointed nubs that have begun to swell to hardness under John's ministrations. In no time at all, Sherlock is whimpering helplessly.

"Nnngh. Captain, please."

"Please what, sweetheart?"

"Touch... touch me. Please."

"Where, sweetheart?"

"My... _oh--_ " (John trails his thumbnail perilously close to the nipple, but still avoids direct contact) " _\--oh,_ my.... my nipples, please."

"Mmm." A swell of hot arousal courses through John at those words. He loves making Sherlock vocalise what he wants; it makes him feel immeasurably powerful. "Alright, love. But don't move, alright? You have to be completely still, or this stops. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

With that, John lowers his mouth and begins to flick the erect nub of Sherlock's pert left nipple with the tip of his tongue, all while ever so gently brushing just the very tip of his right nipple with his thumb.

"AAAAUUUUUGH." Sherlock lets out a moan so loud it startles John momentarily, before he gets his bearings. Grinning to himself, he continues applying just feather-light stimulation to Sherlock's peaked buds.

He doesn't let the torture go on for too long; he needs Sherlock to last. Eventually light licks give way to long, sensuous sucks and quick nibbles, and the brushes of his thumb make way for harsher pinches and twists.

Eventually, Sherlock's nipples are swollen and red. Satisfied, John sits back to gaze down at Sherlock.

His eyes are glassy and his curls are matted to his forehead with sweat. He's made no move to fight against the restraint of the handcuffs, and his legs remain splayed open and pliant. His cock rests heavily on his stomach, still engorged but not yet tormented to the point of bursting. He's being perfectly obedient.

John's glad. There are some nights that Sherlock wants to struggle and make John force him into submission. John doesn't mind it, but he's glad tonight is not one of those nights. That would have complicated things considerably.

John shuffles back towards the end of the bed and pulls Sherlocks legs together. Sherlock lets out a whine of dismay.

"Shhh, sweetheart. Don't worry. You'll like what happens next, I promise."

Sherlock lets out a light _harumph_ of disappointment and rolls his eyes, and John has to struggle to suppress a smile. It's moments like when he's reminded that even when he's like this, Sherlock is still very much _Sherlock._ He doesn't become some other entity, passive and needy. He's still in there, just slightly more... docile.

With Sherlock's legs stretched out straight, John moves up the bed to straddle him before pressing their cocks together and giving a few long, slow thrusts. Sherlock moans and tips his head back, exposing his throat to John, who leans down to plant a few more kisses and bites across the already hickey-strewn flesh there. 

Finally, John pulls away and sits up, legs still bracketing Sherlock's pelvis.

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Sherlock complies. "Listen to me very carefully, now. I'd like to try something new." Sherlock nods. John takes a deep breath.

"Alright. Before we start, I need to remind you: if at _any point_ something is happening that you don't want, _tell me._ You can say anything: _stop, don't, slow down, I can't, I don't like it, I don't want that..._ Literally any signal at all and I'll stop immediately."

They don't mess about with safewords as they never play at non-con, but John feels the need to drive this point home.

"If you feel you can't speak, snap your fingers. If you just want to slow down but not stop, tell me so and we'll slow things down. If you want to pause and take a break, that's fine too. Is all of that understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Alright. Now, Sherlock, I'm going to be checking in with you often while this is happening. That means you need to stay present, no checking out. If at any point I don't get affirmation from you when I'm checking in, I'm going to stop. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Alright, then." John takes yet another deep breath. He feels calm, in control. He has the situation entirely under his command. Sherlock is tied up and passive beneath him; no one is going to take away his authority. John will remain the one in charge.

Reassured, he proceeds.

"Alright, love." With that, he reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the lube, quickly coating the three fingers of his left hand. Sherlock's facial expression is one of slight apprehension, but his hands remain relaxed around the chain of the cuffs. 

Then John leans forward to hover over Sherlock, bracing himself with his right arm as he rises up onto his knees. He reaches behind himself with his left hand and presses inside with three fingers at once.

He sucks in a breath as he pushes them in all the way in one slick motion. He's still open and wet from his prep in the shower, but the sensation still feels new all over again.

"Oh my God." For a split second John wonders if he said those words aloud, but he registers a moment later that it was Sherlock. John doesn't remember having closed his eyes, but when he opens them, Sherlock is staring up at him with a rapt expression of pure awe. 

"Mmmmmm." John moves his fingers lightly in and out of himself, and licks his lips. Sherlock's mouth falls open as he watches John's facial expression change with the new angle. John is fairly certain Sherlock's not breathing. "You with me, love?"

Sherlock stares at him dumbstruck for a moment before snapping back to attention. "Yes, John! I mean, Captain, yes Captain, I'm... oh, God..." Sherlock heaves a gasping breath, clearly trying to bring himself under control. John glances up to notice the muscles in his arms have begun to flex, and he's pulling against the cuffs slightly.

"Easy there, sweetheart. I need you to stay still, remember?"

"Yes, Captain." 

"Good." John gives his fingers a final press and twist before withdrawing them. He's as open as he's going to get-- but now it's the moment of truth.

He draws himself up onto his knees and leans back to reach behind himself with both hands. With his left, he slicks Sherlock's rigid cock with the remaining lube from his fingers. With his right, he pulls his own cheeks open to expose his hole. Slowly, gently, he lines Sherlock up.

The tip of his cock dips into John's open hole, and they both gasp. 

John freezes. Sherlock's eyes are locked into his, jade-green orbs blazing with singular intensity. The consequence of this moment suddenly feels enormous--John thinks about the man he was the day his eyes first met Sherlock's, in that dingy St. Bart's lab, and then he thinks about the man he is now--how far they've come together. The enormity of it all is nearly overwhelming.

But he won't allow himself to become overwhelmed. He's the one in control here, he's the one calling the shots. He needs to keep his head in the game.

His mouth feels uncomfortably dry, but he licks his lips and then speaks. 

"Is this alright, sweetheart?"

Sherlock nods.

"I need a solid yes or no, Sherlock."

"Yes. Yes, John." It's barely a whisper and Sherlock's forgotten to call him 'Captain,' but John hasn't got the bandwidth to make himself care. He simply nods in response and begins to lower himself down.

It's slow going. He'd done some additional reading up online in the previous weeks, so he knows he has to take it at a glacial pace. When he's about halfway down Sherlock's cock (at around the point taking the rest of it feels insurmountable), he takes a suggestion from one of the websites and withdraws entirely before planting his feet firmly on the bed to lower himself back down in a squatting position this time.

The website wasn't wrong; squatting provides him with a more pleasurable angle and better control, and he grins to himself as he leans back to place his hands on Sherlock's thighs for additional leverage. He throws back his head and drags in a ragged breath.

Sherlock moans as well, but he remains completely still. He's staring up at John as though he's the most incredible thing he's ever seen, and John grins down at him as he lowers himself the last few inches, until his cheeks are flush against Sherlock's thighs.

 _"Nnnnngh. Captain._ Oh, GOD, oh Jesus... John, Captain..." Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, clearly overwhelmed.

"Shhhh. Easy there, love, deep breath, now. Good, good. Take another. That's it, now. Easy. Breathe again for me, sweetheart. That's it, nice and slow. Gorgeous. So good for me. So perfect. You alright?"

With considerable effort, Sherlock seems to gather his wits about him. "Yes, Captain."

"Good. Here's what's going to happen now: I'm going to fuck myself on your cock until I'm satisfied. You're not going to come until I say you're allowed. Is that crystal clear?"

At the issuing of orders, Sherlock seems suddenly resolute, filled with solemn determination. "Yes, Captain."

"Excellent. If at any point you're too close to the edge, I need you to tell me to pause. If you come in me like this, I'm going to be extremely disappointed in you, and this won't ever happen again. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good, sweetheart. Be good for me, now."

And with that, John begins to raise and lower himself on Sherlock's cock.

It's _good._ As the website had promised, this position allows John complete control over the angle and depth of penetration. Though he's not a young man, he's fit enough that the strength in his legs easily supports him, and the arch in his back caused by the position of his hands thrown back behind himself to hold onto Sherlock's thighs causes Sherlock's cock to skim over John's prostate with every stroke.

He's not fully hard, but he knows he won't be, and he's allowed himself to accept that. Instead of focusing on orgasm, he he reminds himself to enjoy the act itself; to delight in the sensation of Sherlock inside of him, the way the ridge at the end of his cock catches John's rim _just so_ when he raises himself high enough, the way his girth presses against John's prostate when he gets the right angle and it makes John's toes curl and his arms feel weak.

Sherlock issues a muffled moan.

"Oh, yes, sweetheart. Is it good? Do I feel good?"

"Yes, Captain. God, so good."

"Am I nice and tight around your cock?"

"Nnnnngh, so tight, so tight, Captain."

"You like fucking me?"

"AUUUUGH, yes! Yes! Yes, Captain!"

"Oh, Sherlock, you feel so good, sweetheart."

"Oh! Ng, ng, ng!" Sherlock goes non-verbal and is reduced to moans that quickly devolve into shouts. Again, John prays Mrs. H. is asleep with her white-noise machine on; this session has reached a frankly obscene volume as John continues to fuck himself on Sherlock's cock and watch in rapt attention as Sherlock falls to pieces beneath him.

Sherlock is clearly struggling to keep himself together. His eyes dart from John's face down to his arse, where he watches with a look of incredulous disbelief as his cock disappears into John over and over again. All the while he continues to shout, but he keeps his body entirely motionless and prone on the bed. Every once in a while his whole torso will tense and he'll pull tight against the cuffs, but he recovers quickly each time.

He is being _so very good._

John is careful to watch for the telltale signs of his impending orgasm. He knows Sherlock will tell him if he gets too close to the edge, but John doesn't want him to have to; it's Johns responsibility to keep Sherlock from getting too close when he's been ordered not to come.

Finally, John sees it: the telltale quiver that travels across Sherlock's abdomen right before he gets to the point of no return. 

He unceremoniously kneels up and unseats himself entirely. Sherlock howls at the loss.

"Hush, none of that, now. You listen to me, understand?"

Instantly, Sherlock falls silent. His eyes lock into John's and he nods feverishly.

"Here's what's going to happen now: I'm going to uncuff you, and you're going to fuck me until you come. Is that understood?"

Sherlock blinks rapidly and for a moment John worries he's short-circuited, but he quickly shakes himself back to reality. "Yes, Captain."

"You don't need to hold back, sweetheart, and you don't need to worry about hurting me. I'll stop you if I want to stop you. Is that clear?"

The words tumble out in a rush. _"Yes,_ Captain."

"Good. Let's get to it, then."

With that, John grabs the key from the nightstand and unlocks Sherlock's cuffs in one swift motion. Then he flops onto his back beside Sherlock and spreads his legs.

Sherlock still hasn't moved.

"DID I stutter?" 

Sherlock jerks to life and scrambles to his knees with almost comical haste. He makes his way between John's parted legs and lines himself up again before hesitating, his face suddenly uncertain.

"HOLMES. Fuck me. NOW."

"Yes, Captain!" And with that, Sherlock thrusts home.

It's a bit blurry after that. John does his best to remain collected and in control of the situation, as he knows he should when he's dominating Sherlock, but it's hard when he's watching what may be the most erotic scene he's ever witnessed play out before him.

Sherlock is magnificent. His muscles ripple with the strain of every powerful thrust, and the glorious pressure of his thick cock pressing even deeper into John than it had before makes John feel like he's entered an alternate plane of existence. After a mere three or four experimental thrusts, Sherlock leans forward to grab the headboard with his right hand and plants his left beside John's head, a position John knows from experience will give him the maximum leverage to penetrate John at the deepest angle.

John grabs his own thighs behind his knees and holds himself open to allow Sherlock to chase his pleasure as uninhibitedly as possible.

And God, he does. John offers a constant string of barked commands that transition slowly to praise as he senses Sherlock getting close. ("Harder! Faster! Christ, just like that, more! Don't stop! More! I said MORE! Come on, now! That's it! Oh, sweetheart, you're so good, so perfect, come on, just like that, just a little more now, love...")

Sherlock's eyes are wild as he pounds into John, issuing groans and pants through gritted teeth as he thrusts for all he's worth. Finally--

"Oh! Oh!" His eyes fly open as if in surprise, but the look of ecstasy soon contorts into frustration as he falls just short of his orgasm, grinding mercilessly into John's arse.

John grabs onto Sherlock's flexing cheeks to guide him ever deeper inside and lets the words of encouragement pour from his mouth. "That's it, love. Come on, give it to me, now. Shhh, it's alright, I've got you, just let it happen. Sweetheart, it's okay, you're alright, come on now, fuck me, just a little harder. That's it, just like there, good, you're so perfect, just a little more now, come on. There we go, YES, oh sweetheart, come on, want your come now, need your come, give it to me, come on, give it to me, yes, that's it, oh, sweetheart, yes, YES!"

Sherlock's eyes slam shut and he falls completely silent as he comes. 

The feeling of being filled with semen is strange but _good._ And Christ, the look on Sherlock's face as he pumps into John, expelling his lengthy release, is more than worth any initial hang-ups, and John suddenly begins to see why Sherlock loves John coming inside him so much; it's a feeling of _belonging_ unlike quite anything else he's ever experienced before.

Sherlock collapses bonelessly onto John the moment he finishes, tucking his face almost shyly into the crick of John's neck and issuing a quiet series of whimpers as he comes down from the high.

A part of John is exhausted and just wants to let it end like this. But he knows what he has to do now to make this work for them both--to keep their precarious balance right.

Mustering all of his strength, he pushes Sherlock's spent form off of him and rolls him onto his back before grabbing his wrists and cuffing them to the headboard once again. Sherlock complies willingly; he's clearly got no strength left in him to question John, let alone challenge him. He stares up at John through glazed eyes, blinking slowly, clearly trying to process this new turn of events.

Before Sherlock has a change to process anything, John is shuffling up to insert himself between Sherlock's legs, roughly stroking his own cock to full hardness. Then without hesitation, he reaches between Sherlock's cheeks to remove the plug. He licks his hand to slick his own cock just a bit more, then shoves himself inside.

Sherlock grunts in surprise but spreads his legs further, allowing John to sink all the way in on his first stroke. Sherlock's passage is still slick with John's come from their previous encounter, and John begins to thrust with a steady rhythm as Sherlock heaves a ragged breath below him, arching his back in pleasure. His arms strain against the cuffs.

"Mmm, yes, sweetheart. Take me now, just like that. So lovely. Be nice and still for me, love, let me have you now."

 _"John. Captain. Yes."_ Sherlock's voice is low and awestruck.

John leans forward to place his right hand beside Sherlock's head. The left he places gently around his throat. Sherlock's eyes snap to meet his.

"Alright, sweetheart?"

"Yes, John. Go ahead." He tips his head back to increase the pressure, and John smiles to himself as he starts to squeeze.

Breathplay is still fairly new to them, and they keep it extremely mild--verging on tame. John usually only does this during their most extreme sessions, when Sherlock's been fighting him tooth and nail and John has finally taken him down but wants to test his submission. As a doctor, he knows he has to be in just the right headspace to do this, and tonight is the perfect opportunity; John feels golden, infallible, in total control of his own pleasure as well as Sherlock's. He's riding the high, confidence soaring--he's never felt more powerful.

He tightens his grip until Sherlock's breaths are shallow and strained, his Adam's Apple bobbing beneath John's palm as he struggles to remain calm. 

It's important he submit entirely now. In every session they share, there's a single, pivotal moment when Sherlock finally completely surrenders and just... _lets go._ No amount of complacency during foreplay or fucking leading up to this point can compare; when Sherlock _lets go,_ it becomes something else entirely.

John knows he's nearly got him there. Quickly, he changes the angle of his thrusts to stimulate Sherlock's prostate, causing his spent cock to twitch helplessly with overstimulation. Sherlock struggles to draw a deep breath to steel himself against the onslaught, but John tightens his grip around his throat and shakes his head. 

"No. Hold still. Take it. Do as I say. Be good, now."

Sherlock's eyes widen and his lips part. And then he goes completely and utterly slack.

Satisfied, John proceeds to fuck him as brutally as possible. Sherlock takes it all without so much as a whine of protest.

John doesn't last much longer. The rush of having Sherlock submit so completely has his arousal ratcheted up to unprecedented heights, and before he knows it, he's emptying himself deep inside him, filling him, squeezing his throat just a hint more until the waves of pleasure begin to recede. Sherlock's eyes remain locked into his, the look of trust in them so complete that it rattles John to his very core. He moans as his cock twitches and expels the last remnants of his release.

Satisfied, he removes his hand from Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gasps in a desperate breath before his face dissolves into a hundred-watt grin.

John grins back.

Madness, the two of them. Perfection.

John leans down and kisses him, deeply and full of passion. He plunders Sherlock's mouth with his tongue and continues to grind into him as his cock gradually begins to soften.

Finally, he has no choice but to pull out. He quickly grabs the plug and re-inserts it, pausing only momentarily to run his finger around Sherlock's glistening rim. Sherlock moans as he does so, clearly getting sore after two such vigorous encounters in a row. The thought makes John's heart rate increase, even though he's just come.

Before he can get too distracted, he grabs the key to the handcuffs from off the nightstand to release Sherlock's wrists, squeezing his hands and rubbing his arms as he lowers them gently back to Sherlock's sides. 

Finally, he falls back to the pillows and gathers Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock hums contentedly and burrows against his chest.

"How was that, sweetheart?"

 _"Perfect,_ John. You're _perfect."_

"Mmm. You're pretty amazing too, you know. Incredible. Brilliant. All that." He can feel Sherlock chuckle from where he has his mouth pressed against John's pec.

John leans down to plant a kiss in the tangled mop of Sherlock's hair. 

"Alright, love. I think we should get a little bit of rest now. Do you want to be done, or do you want to just take a quick nap to re-charge and then we can keep going for a while longer?"

"More, please, John."

John smiles. "Okay, sweetheart. Just rest now. Then we'll have some more."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balance is a delicate thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to reader FrenchCaresse, whose comment on a previous installment helped me work through my writer's block on this one!

John wakes some time later and hazards a glance at the clock. They'd been dozing for the better part of 90 minutes--a part of him is mildly shocked he didn't just pass out entirely and wake up the next morning.

But his body seemed to have taken over whatever slack his brain was cutting, and he's already half-hard and pressed against Sherlock's backside by the time he's even fully awake.

Once he gets his bearings, he makes himself pause and take stock of the situation. Sherlock is asleep, but it's the light, uncommitted, restless sleep he sleeps during pauses in their sessions; his breathing remains shallow and his eyelids flutter as if he's constantly moments from waking.

John stretches and attempts to assess his own physical state. His muscles are a bit sore (probably from a combination of chasing the perp through Holloway Prison at top speed, followed by the rather physically ambitious sexual encounter with Sherlock in the kitchen), but overall, nothing beyond a light strain. He rolls onto his back and attempts to take stock of his arse; he's sensitive, for sure, but it's not as painful as he was anticipating--there's just a bit of light burning and a rather unpleasant sensation of wetness that he quickly pushes to the back of his mind. As good as it had felt to have Sherlock come inside him in the heat of the moment, thinking about the aftermath makes him feel slightly squeamish. It certainly seems that Sherlock's love of messes had _not_ transferred to John in this department--the fact that Sherlock is currently curled up asleep with an anal plug and two loads inside of him, content as can be, feels completely foreign to John.

But he doesn't let himself dwell on it-- they were each entitled to their own sexual preferences and habits. As all the Power Dynamics message boards were constantly reminding him, what mattered wasn't _understanding_ his partner's sexual preferences, it was finding out if they were _compatible_ with his own. And in that regard, he reminds himself, he and Sherlock are still a perfect match: Though John may not enjoy the sensation of come in his own arse, the thought of his being inside Sherlock's still sends an undeniable pang of arousal through him.

Speaking of which...

John reaches down and gives himself a few experimental strokes. His cock resolutely rises to full hardness, and in no time he's ready for another round.

Sherlock is still dozing peacefully. Gently, John rolls him from his side onto his stomach and proceeds to position his hands up above his head, where he re-engages the handcuffs. Sherlock stirs and blinks blearily, turning his head to the side.

"John?"

"Shhh, sweetheart. It's alright. Be still, now."

 _"Oh."_ Sherlock seems to get his bearings and processes what's happening, and he immediately relaxes under John's hands. John strokes his back reassuringly before grabbing a pillow and tapping Sherlock's hip. Sherlock dutifully raises his pelvis off the bed and John positions the pillow underneath him, noting that his cock is already beginning to swell. John smiles to himself. He pulls back the duvet entirely and deposits it on the floor before shuffling into position, parting Sherlock's legs, exposing the plug resting between his cheeks.

John reaches down to withdraw the plug and presses two fingers inside. Sherlock is wet and loose; there's no need to add more lube. Satisfied, John leans forward to place his right hand at the back of Sherlock's neck before pressing down gently, holding Sherlock firmly in place. Sherlock moans and parts his legs further.

John lines up his cock and presses inside.

He fucks Sherlock slowly this time, taking his pleasure at a leisurely pace, delighting in watching as his cock plunders Sherlock's messy hole with a satisfyingly wet sound. He grips Sherlock firmly by the back of the neck with one hand and pushes down on his shoulder with the other, ensuring that he stays completely submissive throughout the process. 

Sherlock remains unmoving, letting John use his body freely, his breaths deep and even as he relaxes into his submission. The handcuffs turn out to be completely unnecessary; Sherlock's fingers remain loosely twisted in the slack chain as he takes John's cock willingly and without any sign of struggle. John lets himself revel in the power rush washing over him.

All too soon, he can feel the telltale signs of his impending release. He leaves one hand lightly resting on Sherlock's neck but the other he moves to his arsecheek, pulling him further open to give John a better view of his hole, already slick with come. It's deliciously filthy, and John speeds up his thrusts, willing himself to keep his eyes open and fixed on where they're joined until the roils of pleasure become too much and he's emptying himself for the third time that night, shivering in the wake of his orgasm as he thrusts until he's too soft to continue. Beneath him, Sherlock utters a low moan.

John rolls off of him and presses a kiss to his cheek.

"You with me, love?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. You were so good for me, there. Want to make you feel good now."

"Mmmm, yes please, John."

John reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out the vibrator. A grin stretches across Sherlock's face.

"Yes, that's right, I think you get a little treat for being so good tonight. Going to fuck you with this, now. Go ahead and come on the pillow whenever you're ready. Understood?"

Sherlock nods enthusiastically. "Yes, John."

John spreads a bit of lube onto the vibrator (probably complete overkill considering that he's come inside Sherlock three times already tonight, but he wants this to be completely pleasurable for him) and pushes it inside. As soon as it bottoms out, John flicks it on to the lowest setting. Sherlock moans appreciatively.

"There we go, sweetheart, that's lovely. Going to make you feel so good. Go ahead and thrust against the pillow, if that feels nice."

Sherlock shifts his pelvis forward experimentally and issues a sharp intake of breath. John rarely lets Sherlock stimulate his own cock when they're unwinding (he prefers to have Sherlock completely under his control, so he's generally restricted to the mercy of John's mouth or hand if he gets anything at all; most of time time, John won't stimulate him at all, and he'll have to come untouched if he wants relief). Tonight is an exception; Sherlock had submitted so willingly and fucked John so enthusiastically that John is hungry to give him unprecedented satisfaction in return.

Sherlock's cuffed hands reach up to grab the slats of the headboard for leverage, and he begins to rut into the pillow with renewed enthusiasm. John turns up the level on the vibrator and begins to push it in and out in time with Sherlock's thrusts, murmuring faint words of praise and encouragement as he does so.

Sherlock turns his head to gaze up at John through dazed eyes. His mouth is open and slack, as though the waves of pleasure washing over him have him completely overwhelmed. He's issuing loud, desperate cries each time John presses the vibrator in deep.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's lovely. Are you feeling good? Shhhh, not so loud, now, love. Here, suck these."

He reaches down and grabs his dog tags from where they're resting on the bed beside Sherlock's neck, and pops them into his mouth. Sherlock's tongue darts out to encircle the tips of John's fingers as he places the discs inside, and on a whim, John goes ahead and presses his pointer and middle fingers in beside them. Sherlock proceeds to suckle and tongue at the tags and fingers with unbridled enthusiasm. 

The sensation sends a shiver up John's spine. Christ, he'd thought he was done, but this is making him wonder if he's got another round in him.

But this is about Sherlock for now, and John refocuses his attention on flicking the vibrator to its highest setting before aiming it to stimulate Sherlock's prostate in a firm, deliberate press.

Sherlock's eyes widen and bulge, and his teeth sink into the meat of John's fingers momentarily before he regains his composure.

He begins to thrust into the pillow in quick, desperate motions, his arms straining against the headboard as he chases his release. John follows the undulation of his hips with the vibrator in rhythm to keep the pressure on his prostate relentless. Sherlock sucks John's fingers in as deep as they'll go.

It's over quite quickly from there. A few more vigorous thrusts and Sherlock is coming, grunting his way through his pleasure as he sucks and tongues frantically at John's fingers and tags. John gentles him through it, praising him as he empties himself in shivering waves, torn between the pleasure of the friction of the pillow and the overstimulation in his hole from the vibrator. 

At last, his movements cease, and John is satisfied. He flicks the vibrator off and pulls it out, simultaneously removing his fingers and tags from Sherlock's mouth.

"Beautiful, sweetheart. That was so good. Are you feeling good, now?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper.

"Alright. I'm going to push you a little now, okay? Tell me if you want to stop."

"Mmmhmm."

Sherlock's #1 kink is overstimulation, and John does his best to provide him the most extreme pleasure he can handle when they're unwinding. He knows Sherlock's body can take multiple orgasms in quick succession if he stimulates him just right, and tonight John wants to make sure he gets to experience this most thorough release.

Quickly, he flips Sherlock's prone form over and tosses the come-soaked pillow onto the floor. Sherlock's wrists are still secured to the headboard by the cuffs, and the chain has just enough give that he's able to re-position Sherlock onto his back without causing a strain. Without further ado, he pushes Sherlock's legs apart and up until his thighs meet his chest, then he re-inserts the vibrator and flicks it on to high.

Sherlock screams and arches, his head thrashing wildly from side to side. John uses his free hand to grab one of his thighs and hold him in place before he can unseat the vibrator entirely.

"Shhh, it's alright, love, hold still now, let it happen."

Sherlock issues a wet whimper that quickly turns into a sob. John's stomach lurches--the tears are surely not far behind, and he's still uneasy about his own reaction to them; making Sherlock cry during sex when they're unwinding makes John unbearably aroused, a fact he hates about himself--what sort of fucked up person gets off on another's tears? The message boards he's read all assure him that this dynamic is completely normal during a power exchange session, but still, he finds himself getting mildly stressed out every time it happens. 

He takes a deep breath and wills himself to remain calm and focused. He reminds himself that this is all safe and consensual, that Sherlock has explicitly expressed his desire for this, and that they mutually agreed to set forth on this path. He reminds himself that there is _nothing_ wrong with him and _nothing_ wrong with Sherlock, that he should not be ashamed of their desires, and that he should embrace their mutual understanding. 

There is no place for fear here.

Beneath him, Sherlock writhes and moans in apparent agonising ecstasy. The tears are flowing from the corners of his eyes, but his cock is twitching back to life, helpless to resist the onslaught against his prostate from within. He stiffens and moans as a string of precome (or perhaps residual come from his previous release? It's hard to tell when John makes it all happen so close together) trickles down his shaft.

"That's it, love, look at you. Hard again already. Christ, someday I should time you, you know? I bet you'd set some sort of record. Would you like that, sweetheart? We do a little science experiment together and see how many times I can make you come?"

"Nnngh, John, GOD YES!" His hands twist into the chain of the cuffs and he yanks helplessly against the bedframe.

John grins--of course Sherlock would get the biggest kicks out of dirty talk involving science experiments.

He returns his attention to prodding Sherlock's prostate with surgical precision, all while Sherlock begs and moans, desperate for relief. Once he's finally fully hard again (it barely takes him five minutes, John notes, which seems completely unfair considering that his own refractory period is neigh on an hour, give or take), John squeezes a bit of lube into his free hand and begins to pump Sherlock's shaft in firm, fast strokes.

It's a lot of stimulation to handle. Sherlock is sweating and shaking and his balls have pulled up tight to his body. His arsehole flutters around where the vibrator moves in and out of him in a slick slide, his pelvic muscles spasming in anticipation of another imminent release. John's eyes are riveted to the trickle of come that's begun to leak from his hole, streaking the vibrator as it displaces more with each push. Christ, John's getting hard again himself just watching this play out, and he moans under his breath as Sherlock spreads his legs ever further, willing John to penetrate him more deeply.

Then Sherlock is arching nearly off the bed, arms jerking against the merciless restraint of the cuffs, howling as his body clenches helplessly down on the vibrator as its ministrations push him over the edge.

His cock hardens and twitches in John's hand, then there's a pause, followed by a shout from Sherlock as a thick stream of come trickles over John's fingers.

There's hardly anything to this release; John knows Sherlock's come three times already tonight in relatively short succession, and he must be nearly dry by now. As such, he pays little attention to when Sherlock stops emitting come; he knows that his orgasms can stretch much longer than his emissions, especially when he's overstimulated.

Sure enough, Sherlock continues to wail and bear down on the vibrator for a good 30 seconds after the last drops of come have leaked from his overworked cock. Finally, John can feel his shaft begin to soften, and his hole releases its grip on the vibrator.

John removes his hand from Sherlock's shaft and withdraws the vibrator to survey the scene.

Sherlock looks wrecked. His face is tear-stained and red, and his body is sweat-soaked and trembling from head to toe. He's still holding his legs open, and John can see the swollen edges of his rim, red from rough use. He's leaking obscenely.

John is hard as a rock.

But he shows restraint. Half of the challenge is knowing when to stop, and he knows damn well that Sherlock can't take him again--he's done for tonight. He's staring up at John through glassy eyes, heaving in wet gasps that sound like whimpers.

John rises onto his knees and takes himself in hand. He strokes himself violently as he feasts his eyes on Sherlock's debauched body, and in no time, he's splashing come across his spent cock and hole, moaning with relief. 

Exhausted, he collapses onto the bed beside him.

They lay like that for a while, not touching, not speaking, just breathing. Sometimes in moments like this, John wishes Sherlock were more into aftercare, but the truth is, he's not, and he's been straightforward about it. For the most part, once the sexual portion of the session is concluded, Sherlock just needs some time to be by himself.

Once John's heart rate returns to normal, he pulls himself into a sitting position and leans over to press a kiss against Sherlock's lips.

"You with me, sweetheart?"

"Yes, John."

"Want me to leave you here for a bit?"

"Please, John."

"Alright. I'm going to leave the cuffs on, but I'm putting the key in the lock. If you need to get out, just turn it. Understood?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Good. I'll be back in a bit."

With that, John makes his way to the bathroom to shower again.

He cleans himself thoroughly, wincing slightly as he he runs the flannel over his tender hole. As pleasurable as the experience had been, he's fairly certain at this point that he's not going to make a habit of bottoming for Sherlock--he can only hope Sherlock will understand. He washes the rest of his body down and dries off quickly before wrapping himself in his dressing gown and proceeding to the kitchen.

He clears up the dirty plates and pans and sets them all to soak in the sink, and does a once-over on the surfaces with a damp sponge (he's fairly certain the table was spared any contact with actual bodily fluids, but the do _eat_ there and occasionally entertain guests--it seems only polite to make sure it's passably clean). Finally, he fills up two glasses with water and makes his way back to the bedroom.

Sherlock looks utterly blissed out and completely relaxed, his body casually stretched the length of the bed, reveling in his debauched state. His eyes are closed but he's clearly not asleep, and he turns to look at John as soon as he passes through the doorway.

"Hi there, sweetheart."

"Hello, John."

John sets the glasses of water on the nightstand and unlocks the cuffs. He squeezes Sherlock's hands in his own (Sherlock responds quickly in kind) before doing a quick check over Sherlock's wrists. They're red and slightly chafed, but it shouldn't result in anything worse than some light bruising.

He sits down on the bed and Sherlock dutifully parts his legs to let John inspect between them, looking for any signs of tearing. Though it's true John does find it terribly arousing, he's also adamant that they remain vigilant about this part of the process from a medical standpoint; though he's happy to keep things as rough as Sherlock demands, he has no illusions about the potential risks involved. Thankfully, everything seems in order--the area will no doubt be tender, but there's no sign of any damage.

John helps Sherlock slowly pull himself into a sitting position, wincing in sympathy as Sherlock issues a sharp intake of breath.

"Alright, love?"

"Mmm, yes, I think so. Sore. But fine." 

John grabs the glasses of water from the nightstand and hands one to Sherlock. "Drink this, then we'll get you cleaned up." Sherlock downs the glass without complaint and John follows in kind--the toll from the past few days is catching up with them both, and John can feel the signs of impending dehydration setting in.

As soon as they've finished, John helps Sherlock to his feet and guides him into the bathroom, where he runs the shower scalding hot and eases Sherlock under the stream before leaving him to get himself cleaned up.

While Sherlock is occupied, John strips the bed and applies fresh sheets and refills both of their water glasses. He knows by the time Sherlock gets out of the shower he'll be more than ready for his 14 hour Post-Case Sleep of the Dead, so John wants to make sure everything is well-prepared.

Sure enough, minutes later Sherlock staggers out of the bathroom in a halo of steam and collapses face-first into the waiting bed. Smiling indulgently, John throws the duvet over him and then climbs in to join him before turning out the light.

"John?"

"Hmmm?"

"You can hold me if you want to."

"Oh! Um...do you want me to?"

"I don't need you to, no. But it wouldn't bother me, I'll be asleep soon anyway. And I know you said sometimes you feel strange when I just go to bed and you haven't given me any aftercare so... maybe this could be a compromise?"

"I...I'd like that, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Mmm." Sherlock snuffles non-committally as John pulls him into his arms. Within moments, he's out cold.

Still, John is overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. It's true, he had confessed to Sherlock once before that sometimes not giving him aftercare when they'd unwound following a case made John feel uneasy, but he'd assumed Sherlock had just ignored it.

But he hadn't. He'd listened.

John cradles him tighter in his arms, stroking one hand reverently down his side and planting a soft kiss on his shoulder. Sherlock is dead to the world, there's no way he's processing any of it, but somehow the act of holding him like this is keeping the ache in John's chest at bay.

He soon joins him in a peaceful sleep.

*******

Five weeks later, they make love with Sherlock topping for the first time. It's completely different than it had been during their unwinding session; it's awkward and clumsy and a little embarrassing, but they laugh and kiss and muddle through. Sherlock is initially thrown off by John's inability to come during penetration, but he accepts John's patient explanation without question, and earnestly devotes himself to pleasing John as thoroughly as he can. 

The results are enjoyable enough. John has Sherlock wear a condom this time so John doesn't feel squeamish about the cleanup. Sherlock learns to control his angle and depth of penetration to bring John the maximum amount of pleasure, pushing into him until John feels like he's going to implode with the desperate desire for release. Sherlock comes with an unbridled shout, gazing adoringly into John's eyes as he rides out wave after wave of pleasure, muttering saccharine declarations of love under his breath that sound so unlike him that John has to fight back the urge to giggle. And when Sherlock is finished, he pulls out and immediately treats John to the most decadently sloppy blowjob he's received in ages.

It's lovely.

But afterwards, there's an unspoken agreement between them that needn't be vocalised; the times when they switch will be rare, few, and far between. Though satisfying for them both, it shakes up their dynamics in a way that feels wholly unnecessary in the greater scheme of their relationship, and neither feels the need to push themselves outside of what works, simply for the sake of doing so.

It was a good experiment, but the results needn't be consistently tested.

Which only reminds John that there were a few other _experiments_ they'd been meaning to conduct...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER thank you to everyone who commented on this series! It was so helpful for me to get an idea of what you like and what you don't like, and where people want to see this series going. It's given me a lot of ideas for the future, and helped me focus my attention on a few key points of clarification in character development that I'll work on solidifying.
> 
> Updates to follow next week that are back to our much more standard fare--fewer feels, more smut, keep things light for a while. And since I alternate POVs, we'll be hearing from Sherlock again next time=) Stay tuned, and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Opinions? Important feelz? Leave a comment, I'm listening!!!


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